[vennywrites]

Rule of Beasts

Pairing: Heian!Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader

Wordcount: 16.9k

Summary: You are the beginning of his end. Sukuna invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm or that moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety. Nothing as strong as a bond honed by misery and shared meals, knowing each other inside and out before either of you had grown sharp teeth and claws and hollow eyes. Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Gore, Blood, Murder, Implied Cannibalism, Animal Death, Abandonment, Assault, Mutilation (Reader), Mental Health Disorders, Depression, Desecration of Religious Shrines, Historical Inaccuracies, Unhealthy Relationship, Obsession, Sex (first time writing smut, please be kind), Blood Play, Kidnapping, Major Character Death, I make my own stuff up about what happened during Sukuna’s original lifespan bc who can make sense of it all? Not me!

a/n: It's finally here and I am so excited and so anxious about it. This is my entry for @sweethearticism's Brutal Bakery Collab. I tried to challenge myself to do things I've never done before (ehem, writing smut) and I'm kind of really scared if it does the whole challenge any justice. But I had a blast writing and I suppose that's the most important part. An absolute Angstfest for all of us fans of Despair, Heartbreak and Misery. English isn't my first language.

Pinterest Board, read it on Ao3

I.

The shrine is already occupied.

When Sukuna arrives - abandoned, dirty, rags hanging off his body and hair disheveled and matted at the back - you already sit in the doorway, the peach’s nectar dripping down your chin.

He is starving. And all his life, Sukuna only ever knew how to fight everything that got in his way. The shinsen is hidden inside, illuminated by golden candlelight and blocked off by your body.

You’re one of the first to not run when you spot him, crawling up the stairs on his arms and legs. Shortly, he considers you might just be too weak to run from him.

It’s all the same to him in the end. You’re in his way and he will carve his path through everything.

Strangely, he does not even manage to cross all the distance before you extend your arm, so thin he could crush it like fish bones. In your palm, the half eaten peach, dripping and delicious.

Wordlessly you offer him food and he just might take your whole hand for it. Neither hand nor body shake as you hold it out before you and when he snarls and snaps at you, you only blink and mimic his grimace.

Your growl is a pathetic thing, small and weak and the sound that leaves you only that of a day old kitten. Orphaned and young, you live by what the wild has taught you. Take from the weak and ally with the strong. You try, you do.

“Yours,” you offer, carefully. And he rips the fruit from your hand, hears your fingers crack as he tugs too hard on them but you don’t flinch away and he doesn’t stay to assess the damage. Tearing through the shrine, he devours the peach and everything else it has to offer.

“Mine,” he snarls back and you watch quietly, eyes vacant and skin sticky.

In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

And only you could push him to ruin the world in your name, so completely that one life time just isn’t enough.

[vennywrites]

Rule of Beasts

Pairing: Heian!Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader

Wordcount: 16.9k

Summary: You are the beginning of his end. Sukuna invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm or that moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety. Nothing as strong as a bond honed by misery and shared meals, knowing each other inside and out before either of you had grown sharp teeth and claws and hollow eyes. Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Gore, Blood, Murder, Implied Cannibalism, Animal Death, Abandonment, Assault, Mutilation (Reader), Mental Health Disorders, Depression, Desecration of Religious Shrines, Historical Inaccuracies, Unhealthy Relationship, Obsession, Sex (first time writing smut, please be kind), Blood Play, Kidnapping, Major Character Death, I make my own stuff up about what happened during Sukuna’s original lifespan bc who can make sense of it all? Not me!

a/n: It's finally here and I am so excited and so anxious about it. This is my entry for @sweethearticism's Brutal Bakery Collab. I tried to challenge myself to do things I've never done before (ehem, writing smut) and I'm kind of really scared if it does the whole challenge any justice. But I had a blast writing and I suppose that's the most important part. An absolute Angstfest for all of us fans of Despair, Heartbreak and Misery. English isn't my first language.

Pinterest Board, read it on Ao3

I.

The shrine is already occupied.

When Sukuna arrives - abandoned, dirty, rags hanging off his body and hair disheveled and matted at the back - you already sit in the doorway, the peach’s nectar dripping down your chin.

He is starving. And all his life, Sukuna only ever knew how to fight everything that got in his way. The shinsen is hidden inside, illuminated by golden candlelight and blocked off by your body.

You’re one of the first to not run when you spot him, crawling up the stairs on his arms and legs. Shortly, he considers you might just be too weak to run from him.

It’s all the same to him in the end. You’re in his way and he will carve his path through everything.

Strangely, he does not even manage to cross all the distance before you extend your arm, so thin he could crush it like fish bones. In your palm, the half eaten peach, dripping and delicious.

Wordlessly you offer him food and he just might take your whole hand for it. Neither hand nor body shake as you hold it out before you and when he snarls and snaps at you, you only blink and mimic his grimace.

Your growl is a pathetic thing, small and weak and the sound that leaves you only that of a day old kitten. Orphaned and young, you live by what the wild has taught you. Take from the weak and ally with the strong. You try, you do.

“Yours,” you offer, carefully. And he rips the fruit from your hand, hears your fingers crack as he tugs too hard on them but you don’t flinch away and he doesn’t stay to assess the damage. Tearing through the shrine, he devours the peach and everything else it has to offer.

“Mine,” he snarls back and you watch quietly, eyes vacant and skin sticky.

In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

And only you could push him to ruin the world in your name, so completely that one life time just isn’t enough.

[sukunahs]

crazy in love | ryomen sukuna

chapter 2: exactly what he wants

pairing: serial killer!sukuna x reader

summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.

he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.

if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.

word count: 11.2k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, dark content, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's good to reader exclusively, fic takes place in the early 2000s, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!

a/n: hope you all enjoy some sukuna pov hehe

masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon!)

Sukuna couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d fallen in love with you. 

He’d always thought you were cute, ever since your teacher had sat the two of you together in a Physics class over seven years ago now. But he wasn’t sure exactly when his feelings had shifted from she’s kinda cute, to outright obsession. 

At some point before he’d disemboweled Ryu - he was certain of that.

Probably long before then. 

He was aware that he’d really fucked things up with you in high school - mainly because he hadn’t quite comprehended the idea that someone else would stake a claim on you before he could find the chance to do so himself. 

In his mind, his affection for you had been obvious, and yet, Ryu still decided to get in the way. 

He couldn’t really blame you for basking in the attention that Ryu provided you with back then - not when he’d overheard you explain your reasoning to your friends. You hadn’t believed that Sukuna was serious, had thought that he was just playing with your heart with the intention of one day breaking it. 

Like he’d ever do such a thing. 

So you’d settled for the next best thing, someone who was clear about their intentions, someone who had offered you more than noncommittal flirting. And while Sukuna understood that, he was by no means willing to sit idly by and let Ryu have you. 

He’d spent weeks planning it out - picking the perfect night, the perfect weapon, the perfect words to say as Ryu bled out on the floor. He’d pictured himself as the caring friend, a shoulder to cry on when you discovered your boyfriend laying dead in the garage. 

What actually transpired that night wasn’t really what he’d planned. 

He’d killed Ryu just as he’d intended to, but after he’d cleaned himself up and gone to find you amongst all the bodies at that party, he discovered you in a state of total despair. Apparently your boyfriend, the boyfriend that was lying dead in the garage, had cheated on you. 

With Yorozu no less. 

Your distressed state changed things. You were already clinging to him, more malleable than he was used to you being, clearly a little drunk and sobbing about how you weren’t good enough. It wasn’t an opportunity that he could pass up, forgetting the murder he’d committed in favor of placating you, purring all the right words in your ear until you were putty in his hands. 

He had you in that bathroom without a single thought to how it might complicate the discovery that would be coming your way later in the night. It was short-sighted, he understood that now - a little more patience could’ve earned him four years of bliss with you.

Instead, he had to suffer you avoiding him like the plague all because of your misplaced guilt. If only you could understand that you didn’t technically cheat on your boyfriend, since he was already dead by the time Sukuna sunk into you. 

Not that he could ever tell you that. 

He’d killed Yorozu for the part that she played in the whole mess. If she hadn't thrown a spanner in the works, Sukuna’s plan would’ve played out just as he’d intended, and you wouldn’t be so anxious and cautious around him like you were now. That woman always seemed to find a way to make Sukuna’s life difficult, and he didn’t want to risk any more hiccups when it came to you. 

Besides, he’d seen the way Yorozu spoke to you, you’d probably be happy if she simply disappeared from the world. He did you a favour. The same was true of Ryu’s death - you deserved better than someone who would cheat on you. Sukuna would worship the very ground that you walked on - why couldn’t you understand that already?

But as frustrating as it was, he knew that he just needed to be patient. 

Now that you were back in town he wasn’t going to pass up his chance. Even through all your guilt and your weak protests about some boyfriend back in the city, there was nothing that would stand in his way this time. 

You were always meant to be his, and he knew that you wanted it just as much as he did - you just weren’t quite ready to admit to it yet. But that was okay, Sukuna was more than happy to help nudge you in the right direction. 

First and foremost, he needed to make sure that something was done about that boyfriend of yours or he’d get nowhere - not now you were so touchy about the idea of cheating. 

The day after Toji’s party, Sukuna found himself at the door of the office trailer on the construction site, knocking on it softly and waiting until he heard your soft voice calling out for him to enter. 

It was fortunate that he had such a clear line of access to you, able to apologise face to face rather than waiting for things to be on your terms. He was sure that you’d chalked it up to pure luck that he happened to work for your father, but there was no luck involved - he’d chosen that job out of desperation, hoping that it might one day open an avenue to you.

He just hadn’t anticipated how excellent an avenue that would be.

Likewise, he imagined that it looked like pure chance that he’d cut his hand on some glass the day before, happening to run into you in some kind of meet cute scenario that neither of you could’ve foreseen. Unfortunately, that was all artificial too. Once he’d found out that you were working in the office, he’d cut across his palm with a knife to give himself a reason to go in there and see you. 

It had all worked out great, considering how tenderly you’d held his hand in yours, patching him up like some kind of cute little nurse. 

He’d almost thought things would be easy after that. He’d heard the tremor in your voice, seen the flush on your cheeks, and had figured that you’d succumb to him immediately. But the way you’d reacted at Toji’s party had really put a damper on things. 

Hitting him with an outright rejection all because of fucking Ryu and this new guy was not what he’d been anticipating.

He bet that those damn friends of yours had something to do with it. Yuki had always hated him, taking steps to make sure that he got nowhere near you as long as she was around. He was itching to ensure that she meet the same fate as Ryu, but he was smarter than that - he couldn’t go killing people that you knew indiscriminately or you’d start to suspect something.

Unless Yuki became an insurmountable barrier to the success of your relationship he’d let her live. 

Besides, it was probably better that he avoid putting you in a position where you’d become overwhelmed with grief and trauma - that just wasn’t conducive to a healthy relationship. 

Dealing with your emotional state after Ryu’s death was hard enough as it was. 

Pushing his way into the trailer, he picked up on the way your eyes widened in surprise for a second before you took control over your expression. You looked cute, propped up on a comfy swivel chair, wearing some oversized baggy hoodie that he wished was his. The idea of you wearing his clothes sent him into overdrive. 

There were dark shadows under your eyes, unsurprising considering how late it was by the time you ditched him in the garden the night before. 

“Cut yourself on some more glass?” You asked cautiously. 

He wasn’t quite sure if you knew that he’d been lying about the nature of yesterday’s incident. He didn’t think so - you’d always struck him as mostly naive, opting to see the good in people and believe that they were generally telling the truth. It was a feature that he admired about you, a worldview that differed so significantly to his cynical mindset. 

“Not yet. Maybe later though.” 

He wasn’t going to shut down the opportunity to have you bandage him up again if he could get away with it. 

You pursed your lips. “Why are you here then?” 

“I wanted to apologise.” He had to bite down on his lip a little to stop himself from grinning at the way that your eyes widened in shock, clearly not expecting him to say anything akin to that. To really sell his words, he ran a hand through his hair, almost bashfully, acting all embarrassed to be showing up and saying such things. 

He wasn’t embarrassed - he wasn’t even really sorry, but you didn’t need to know that. 

“You were right, what we did that night was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened, not like that at least. Ryu deserved more respect - I just liked- like you so much, and I got carried away, both then and last night. Sorry.” 

The majority of what he was saying was a lie, outside of the part where he said that he liked you. It was what you wanted to hear though - if he was going to disarm you he had to placate you first, tell you all the sweet things that would bring him back into your good graces. He certainly couldn’t go around telling you the truth, which was that he had no interest in showing Ryu any respect - before or after his death. 

In fact, knowing that Ryu was dead in that garage, picked apart by Sukuna’s own hands, had probably turned him on even more than usual on that fateful night. 

Maybe one day you’d be receptive to hearing such a thing, after he’d corrected certain flaws in your manner of thinking, but that was a long way off. He needed to take it one step at a time and eventually he’d get everything he’d ever wanted. 

“Oh. Uh- thanks, I appreciate that.” 

You were fidgeting with your hands, eyes darting about as if you were too nervous to look at him properly. It was annoying, because he’d spent so much time in high school working on your relationship, building your confidence up until you finally slept with him. Now here you were back at square one, avoiding eye contact with him just like you had when you’d first met. 

“We should start over,” he said, placing a hand down on your desk, encouraging you to acknowledge him. “Let me take you to lunch today.” 

“I don’t know-” 

“As friends. I’ll pay, as an apology for last night.” 

You glanced up at him then, an almost defensive look in your pretty eyes. He’d come on too strongly yesterday and it had really put your guard up around him. It was his own fault - he should’ve taken a more lowkey approach, but knowing you were back in town after years apart had him acting a bit crazy. 

“Just as friends?” You confirmed, the words coming out slow. 

“Yeah. I’ll get you those pancakes that you like at Doug’s and you can tell me all about that little boyfriend of yours.” 

—

Kashimo was mind-numbingly boring. 

You’d been talking about your boyfriend, if he could even be called that, for about five minutes now, and there wasn’t a single thing about him that convinced Sukuna he was even remotely deserving of your time. 

Sitting across from you in a comfy booth at the back of the diner just felt right, and from the way that you were speaking about Kashimo, he couldn’t really imagine that man is his position right now, gazing at you affectionately as you scoffed down your pancakes. There was no way your new boyfriend would appreciate it, appreciate you, in the way that Sukuna did. 

The only reason that he hadn’t voiced that opinion aloud was because he wanted you to keep talking. This was the most he’d heard you speak in a long time without your tone affected by an edge of caution, and he was enjoying hearing the angelic timbre of your voice - even if he was less than moved by the content itself.

From what he could figure, you weren’t really that interested in Kashimo yourself. He’d heard you speak more excitedly about Ryu than you currently were about this university fling of yours. It all sounded very safe and nice - the usual story of meeting in some elective class, with him asking you out on a couple of dates, which you of course said yes to because you’d never been very good at saying no. 

It wasn’t like things got more exciting from there. He took you on the classic dates to independent coffee shops and artsy cinemas, trying to impress you and trick you into believing that he was some deep, free thinker - as if every other university boy wasn’t doing the exact same thing. 

There was no passion in your voice, nothing that moved Sukuna to believe that Kashimo was a genuine threat in the way Ryu had been. As far as he could tell, you were only dragging the whole thing out because it was comfortable, and perhaps out of fear of having to turn the boy down. 

Sad really, how unwilling you were to chase after your own happiness when it was right there in front of you - content to settle for mediocrity just to make some irrelevant person happy. That was another trait of yours that he desperately needed to correct one day. 

“So, what do you actually like about him?” Sukuna asked, interrupting your spiel about some music charity that Kashimo was currently working for.

He’d noticed that you were talking a lot about Kashimo’s jobs and hobbies, and saying very little about your actual relationship. Your descriptions of Kashimo sounded more like you were reading off a wikipedia page rather than dating the guy.

You blinked a couple of times, as if caught off guard by his question. “Oh- uh- well, he’s really nice. Like, such a genuinely kind person.” 

Sukuna frowned. “Nice? Come on, that’s the first thing you thought of? There’s gotta be something more than that, right? Is he good in bed or something?”

“I’m not gonna talk about that,” you said defensively, cheeks warming. To Sukuna, that response was a pretty conclusive no - if he was something special then you’d probably be willing to discuss it. “I mean, I admire how creative he is. He’s the lead singer in a band and he’s really good. Plus I like how dedicated he is to his work and stuff…”

It wasn’t convincing, he was pretty sure that you weren’t even that convinced. You still hadn’t mentioned anything about how he made you feel, or the things he did for you. Everything just felt impersonal.

“Right. So are you guys gonna get serious then?” He asked, enjoying the way that you grew noticeably frazzled, taking a long sip from your cup of coffee to buy yourself some time before responding. 

“I don’t know. We live so far apart now, and he’s always busy with stuff, we’re not even uh- super official so, yeah… I don’t know.” 

Sukuna grinned, glad that you’d finally come clean about the status of your relationship, or perhaps situationship, just as he’d suspected it to be from the start. That made things simpler, how hard would it be to break you up with someone that wasn’t even really your boyfriend? 

“It kinda sounds like he’s stringing you along.” 

You giggled softly and shook your head. “More like I’m stringing him along. He asked me to move in with him when I left town but- yeah, I don’t know. After everything with Ryu, and some other stuff, I just don’t feel like I’m ready for something that serious.” 

Sukuna hummed. He suspected that the ‘other stuff’ that you referred to had something to do with him. It wasn’t like you were doing a good job of hiding your desire for him, putting up something of a fight whenever he’d approach you but ultimately faltering under the smallest amount of pressure. He knew that you still wanted him, held back only by your own morals and guilt. 

There was a reason that you still agreed to go out to lunch with him, and it wasn’t really because you just wanted to be friends. You were no better at resisting him than he was at resisting you - you were just better at pretending. 

“That’s fair enough. It’s smart to take some time to think about what you want, no point rushing into anything.” 

Unless you were rushing into his arms, of course. 

“Exactly,” you said with a smile, turning your focus back to the plate in front of you and scooping up the final few mouthfuls of pancake, smearing syrup over the corner of your mouth in the process.

Sukuna couldn’t help but think how sweet you looked. He’d love to lean over the table and lick the mess from your face, taste the sugariness of the syrup paired with your enticing lip gloss. Though he assumed you probably wouldn’t appreciate such an action, not right now, at least. Instead, he pointed to the corner of his own lips, alerting you to the presence of the sticky substance. 

Your tongue darted out to clean it, failing miserably. Rather than allowing you a second attempt, Sukuna picked up his napkin and reached over to you, softly dabbing up the liquid. You froze beneath his touch, watching him cautiously, your shoulders only relaxing when he pulled back without further incident. 

“There you go,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks.” It was a shy, bashful response, leaving your cheeks ever so slightly flushed. A heavy silence hung in the air between you for a few seconds before Sukuna decided to fill it with more of his bullshit apology, now that you were done with all the Kashimo talk. 

“I really am sorry, you know. For what happened that night with Ryu, and for coming on too strong lately. I get that you have a boyfriend, and still feel guilty about what we did. I respect that you can’t just move on and pretend like nothing happened.” 

You offered him a small smile, nodding along at his apology. “It was just- that was the worst night of my life, you know? I can’t look at you and not think about it.” 

“I know, I get it.” 

“Maybe one day, maybe after a bit more time, but right now I still find it hard to live with myself.” 

The sad little smile marring your pretty face didn’t sit well with him. You were such a good, kind person, always worrying about how your actions affected others. It wasn’t like you were responsible for Ryu’s death - no one was, with the exception of Sukuna alone. Besides, Ryu had cheated on you first, you deserved to get your own back for that. 

“I’m not saying this just to get my way, but you know that it wasn’t your fault, right?” 

“I know that, I just-” 

“I get that you can’t really see it, I just wish that a horrible coincidence wasn’t the thing that stopped…this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, mirroring the sad nature of your smile. 

“Me too.” He barely heard you, your voice a whisper. He watched the way your fingers twitched nervously, as if contemplating whether you should be having this conversation with him at all. 

“To be honest, I’m just still kind of angry with myself. I wish I’d told you how I felt before Ryu did. Or at least, I wish we hadn’t had sex that night, maybe that way I wouldn’t be tainted for you? I know you’re with Kashimo now, and I’ll respect that, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wish we could be together.” 

He was putting on his best ‘I’m so sad and I’m so sorry’ face and hoping that you’d eat it up. You were the type of girl who had infinite empathy for those around her, the kind of girl who would cry when an animal died in a movie. He was sure that you’d be easily moved by his sorrowful expression. 

“Sometimes I wish that too,” you said honestly, eyes flitting between him and the table. “Everything just ended up getting too fucked up - maybe we just weren’t meant to be.” 

“Maybe,” he hummed in agreement, despite his brain screaming about how you were dead wrong on that front. “But who knows what life holds. I think that if we were meant to be, one day we’ll find a way to each other. Just like how we stumbled across each other again working for your dad, nothing is certain.” 

Boldly, he reached out across the table, his fingers grazing the back of your hand. You didn’t pull away, eyes dropping down to his fingers but making no further acknowledgement of the action as you raised your head once more, staring evenly back at him. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

He wished he could read your mind, eager to pick apart what you were thinking. Were you moved by his desire to be with you? How much pushing would it take for you to give in? You’d literally said that sometimes you wished you were with him too, how hard would it be to get you to take the leap? 

Once again the silence felt heavy, gazes focussed on each other. You were fixing him with an odd sort of look, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out. He wondered if there was a part of you calculating what would happen if you were to throw caution to the wind and give him what he wanted.

He certainly hoped so. 

But you seemed to realise your mistake before you could quite get there, swiftly scrambling to fill the silence, pulling your hand away gently and turning the conversation back around to Kashimo, as if that would obscure your flustered reaction to his touch. “My- my boyfriend is coming to visit in a few weeks.” 

Sukuna’s gaze darkened in annoyance for half a second, frustrated to be shut out again, only to quickly conceal it. He needed to stop viewing this as a short term game - if he started getting angry that you weren’t being more receptive more quickly, he’d be at risk of getting shut out completely. He couldn’t act like some needy incel, he needed to act like your genuine friend and wait until the perfect opportunity arose to pull you to his side. 

Besides, Kashimo’s presence could be a good thing - he could use it as an opportunity to sabotage your relationship, to make that man look bad and make himself look good. If push came to shove, he could use it as an opportunity to deal with Kashimo in the same manner that he dealt with Ryu. 

“Oh yeah? You should introduce us.” He offered, as if he hadn’t been telling you how much he wanted to be with you just moments prior. 

You bit down on your lip, folding your hands carefully beneath the table, firmly out of his reach, as if recovering from the spell you’d temporarily been under. “I- um- don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

“Aw, come on.” He leaned forward, propping his chin up on his hand. “We’re starting fresh, remember? I won’t mention any shit from the past, we’re just friends. I can be perfectly civil with him, just like I always was with Ryu.” 

That wasn’t a lie - he’d be outwardly friendly and he wouldn’t outright mention your past entanglements because it wouldn’t serve him well to do so. 

Should you let him meet Kashimo? Probably not, because he was certainly going to venture out of his way to twist the situation in his favour, but you’d absolutely never know that. You’d always been far too trusting. 

As far as you’d see any interaction between them, Sukuna would be the perfect friend, displaying kindness and interest with absolutely no ulterior motives at all. He’d been good at acting that way with Ryu, and he was certain he’d find Kashimo just as easy. 

People really weren’t all that complex. 

“He’s coming just in time for the reunion, so you’ll probably see him anyway,” you said with resignation, as if you’d spent the previous few seconds considering all the ways that the meeting could fall apart. 

Sukuna practically beamed. “Great. Can’t wait to meet him.” 

—

In the weeks leading up to Kashimo’s visit, Sukuna made sure to utilise his time to the fullest extent, preparing for what he knew would be his best shot at effectively drawing you to his side. 

Part one of his plan went off without a hitch, as it involved maximising the time spent with you over those weeks. That had been pretty easy considering your shared employment - he’d eat lunch with you every day without fail, be it in your office trailer or out at Doug’s. At first you’d shown something of a reluctance towards those daily meetings, but it only took around a week for you to come around. 

You’d always been at least a little fickle where he was involved - he just needed to push the tiniest amount for you to be all pliable, even if you desperately wanted to pretend that wasn’t the case. 

So by the time Kashimo arrived, you and Sukuna seemed to be the best of friends. You’d opened up to him significantly, giggling freely at his jokes, openly seeking him out for your lunchtime hangouts, and even letting slip vital information surrounding your true reservations about your relationship. 

It was ideal for him, it felt almost like how you’d act with him back in high school - back when you’d go running to him to complain whenever Ryu would upset you, as if he wasn’t supposed to take that as a sign of how much happier you’d be with him. 

You’d confided that you weren’t passionate about Kashimo - you were sitting on the fence, wondering if you’d ever feel genuine love for him beyond simple comfort. Words that came as music to Sukuna’s ears - even if he was sure to hide how happy it made him. 

In his time with you he’d done an excellent job of playing friend, and with the exception of your first lunch together, he didn’t bring up his love for you again. He needed it to look like he had your best interest at heart whether it involved him or not. Otherwise it would be hard for him to seem genuine when all his scheming came to fruition at that stupid reunion. 

So, dealing with you he had down - he was proud of it, it felt like he was halfway to success. However, the second aspect of his plan, which had little to do with you, was a little trickier to pull off in the way he was hoping. 

His original idea had been to dig up dirt on Kashimo, figuring that most people had at least some skeletons in their closet - Sukuna certainly did after all, though likely in a more literal sense than most. 

Subsequently, he’d gone online and stalked the guy to the greatest extent possible, which was minimal, because Kashimo had one of those stupid private Myspace profiles where only friends were able to see your stuff. That was annoying, and led to Sukuna making a fake account, with some stolen picture of a hot girl. 

Kashimo accepted the friend request from ‘her’, which meant Sukuna had access to his posts and photos, but was dismayed to find nothing sinister at all. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, considering that Kashimo had you as a friend on the platform - if he was up to anything weird, he probably wouldn’t be sharing it in such a public place. 

That led Sukuna to make an attempt at chatting with Kashimo online, figuring that he could send a few flirty messages and have the man gagging for the fake woman that he’d so painstakingly created - spending an ungodly amount of time curating her profile to make her seem so real and interesting, all artsy like the type of girls he’d imagine Kashimo to be ideally into. 

And yet, that asshole shut things down instantly, replying to messages with cool responses, even pushing back with an ‘I have a girlfriend’ message when Sukuna started to come on too strong. Unlike you, Kashimo seemed steady in his affection for you, already loyal to a fault, which was really fucking annoying. 

Since the guy wasn’t engaging with anything obviously shady, and was unwilling to be pushed to cheat, which would’ve provided clear evidence of the man’s rotten nature for him to share with you, Sukuna decided that he needed to take matters into his own hands. 

If Kashimo wasn’t going to do it himself, Sukuna would do it for him. 

Wasn’t he fortunate to have a friend that was so good with photoshop? 

“Alright.” Satoru said, flicking through the pictures on his computer screen, scrutinising each incriminating image of Kashimo that he’d so painstakingly edited. He was sitting cross-legged on his swivel chair, while Sukuna lounged on his bed, waiting for him to finish up before passing judgement on his creations. “This’ll probably work.” 

Sukuna sat up, peering over Satoru’s shoulder at the screen, grin widening with each image that he observed. Satoru had really put his graphic design degree to good use, because Sukuna totally bought that the images were real. So many of them were awful for Kashimo, displaying him engaging in all manners of debauchery: snorting coke, getting in fights, touching girls who certainly weren’t you. 

Perfect. 

This was one of those rare times where he was actually grateful that he had Satoru as a friend, and he was equally grateful that the man had such a low moral compass for most things. Some friends would stop their buddies from trying to sabotage the relationship of a girl they liked - not Satoru though. 

He’d known for years how much Sukuna was into you, and was more than happy to help the relationship along for the sake of the boy he’d been friends with since birth. 

Obviously, Satoru didn’t know everything. The murders were something that Sukuna would be keeping to himself, since he wasn’t sure that his friend would be as willing to abide by that. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

“So, what’re we doing with the pictures now?” Satoru asked, twisting around to look up at Sukuna.

That part of his plan wasn’t really in place yet. He knew that he wanted to dig up dirt on Kashimo, or in this case - invent it, but he wasn’t sure how to go about presenting it all to you without him looking bad. You couldn’t see him as having any nefarious intent or the whole thing would collapse. 

“I guess I just show them to her after the reunion? Tell her Kashimo confided in me or some shit. Tell her he added me as a friend on that private Myspace we’re making for him, I don’t know.” 

Satoru frowned. “No, no, no - it can’t be you telling her dude, do you think she’s stupid? She knows that you’re into her and she also knows that you’re kinda a jerk. If you show up with a load of printed images of her boyfriend she’ll smell bullshit from a mile away.”

He had a point. 

“Then what? I play the long game? Pretend to make friends with the dude and then bring out the photos when she wouldn’t be expecting it?” 

Satoru hummed, scratching his chin as he stared up at the ceiling. For a moment, Sukuna thought he’d zoned out entirely, gaze fixed on the plastic stars that had decorated his room since childhood. Sukuna had spent many a sleepover staring at those stars, wishing that he lived in a house as nice as Satoru’s. 

“What if I tell her?” Satoru suggested. 

“Huh?” 

Sukuna didn’t love the idea of Satoru talking to you. Despite the fact that the two of them had been best friends their entire life, it didn’t prevent jealousy from taking root where you were involved. He knew that Satoru was handsome and charming, knew that girls tended to like him. Sukuna didn’t want you falling for that trap off the back of Satoru revealing your boyfriend to be rotten.

Satoru rolled his eyes, well aware of Sukuna’s tendency to be possessive. “Its more real if it comes from someone other than you. She can hear it from me and then go running into your arms for comfort later, and you can be all clueless. Isn’t that your ideal scenario?” 

It was. 

“I can go up to her, and talk about how I think I’ve seen her boyfriend before. I can ask her if he was at- what gig was it that we saw on the website for his charity? Green Clover? I can ask if he went to a Green Clover gig lately and when she says yes, I can act all weird until she asks me what’s up.”

“Act weird?” Sukuna asked. 

“Yeah, I can act like I just realised something that I feel a bit awkward to say, then when she pushes, I can spill that I saw him doing some unsavory things, and that I have him on a private Myspace account where he posts all of his partying stuff. Oh! On the fake Myspace profile we created, let's make some phoney emails from escorts and stuff!” 

“Sure.” Sukuna liked that idea. He wasn’t great at this side of things - he barely bothered with technology himself, and couldn’t profess to understand it. His flip phone was mainly used for the sake of texting you and his friends, he wasn’t bothered with all the new online shit like Myspace - making a fake account to befriend Kashimo had been pushing the extent of his skills. If Satoru hadn’t been willing to help, perhaps he just would’ve jumped straight to dealing with Kashimo the old fashioned way, which probably would’ve backfired significantly. 

All this build up was necessary. Your view on the man needed to be shifted before anything unfortunate could befall him. 

“Cool, I’ll start on that now. Man, this is so fun, I wanna build more fake profiles. Maybe your girl will get another boyfriend after this one and we’ll get to do this all over again!” Satoru’s voice was cheerful, and it was fortunate for his mood that his blue eyes were fixed on the screen again and not on Sukuna, who was positively glowering at that statement. 

“Don’t even joke about that shit,” he snarled. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru dismissed him with a wave. “You guys are destined or whatever, I’ve heard it all before. Let me focus. Once I’ve done this we can go over all the details to make sure there’s no holes in the story.” 

Sukuna nodded, laying back down on the bed, shoving several of Satoru’s plushed animals to the side. He couldn’t understand why the man had so many, he was in his twenties for fuck’s sake, did he really need thirty teddy bears to cling to at night? 

“One thing I’m concerned about,” Satoru said after a bit of silence, “what if, after I tell her, she straight up confronts Kashimo and he denies everything?”

Sukuna shrugged. “You say he’s just lying to save his skin. We’ve got proof after all.” 

“Not really though.” 

“I’m not worried about that part.” Sukuna said honestly. “She hates attention, so I don’t think she’d confront him at the reunion, plus she said he had to head home right after. Besides, she’s the type of girl who likes to think things through - especially after everything with Ryu - it's more likely that she’ll shut down and give it some thought before confronting him at a later date. She might want to wait until after she’s had a chance to see your evidence too.” 

Satoru hummed. “That doesn’t solve the issue though, does it? She’ll still confront him eventually.” 

A smile curved up on Sukuna’s lips, one that Satoru didn’t quite catch, his focus still fixed on the glow of the computer screen. 

“You just work on getting these fakes right. Let me worry about the rest.” 

—

The reunion was being held in the gymnasium of the high school, all set up with dozens of big tables, with a massive banner in school colours reading ‘welcome back, class of 2003’. It didn’t look unlike various school dances that Sukuna had attended during his time as a student, albeit there were bottles of wine on the table at this particular function, and the attendees all looked significantly more grown up than they had back then. 

He supposed he’d probably changed too - although he’d always been big, and he’d gotten the first of his many tattoos at sixteen, so perhaps his transformation hadn’t been as significant as other people’s. 

The room was already filled with people, some sitting at tables while others mingled around the room, holding glasses of wine or bottles of beer. He’d arrived fashionably late, not the least bit eager to be one of the first ones at the event, only really attending at all because he knew that you would be here. 

He couldn’t care less about most of these people, didn’t even know half of them - a reunion was something that he was wholly uninterested in. He couldn’t give less of a shit if Kusakabe was married now, or if Nanami had started up his own business in the city - the only person who mattered was you. 

It was easy enough to spot you as he pushed through the sea of people. You were sitting at a table towards the edge of the room, with Shoko and Yuki to the right of you. The three of you were giggling about something or other, and he felt his heart pick up with joy at the sight of you. Your smile was so radiant - he loved the way that it lit up your whole face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. 

If only you could smile at him like that everyday. Waking up to that sight each morning would probably send him straight up to heaven. 

You were his angel. 

Thoughts of your beauty almost had him forgetting his current situation, only brought back down to earth as he scanned over to your right, all of his joy quickly dissipating at the sight of the man sitting beside you. 

He’d spent enough time stalking the guy and forging imagery to recognise Kashimo on sight, with those shiny cerulean eyes of his and obnoxiously dyed hair styled in a stupid half bun. He looked even more ridiculous in person than he did in his pictures - what you saw in the guy was absolutely beyond him. 

Much to his chagrin, Kashimo seemed to be chatting away to Choso, who was supposed to be Sukuna’s friend. He was going to keep that betrayal tucked away in the back of his mind for the future, but he supposed Choso probably didn’t have much choice - Yuki had no doubt encouraged him to play nice, and the boy had no backbone when it came to her. 

She really was the worst. 

Either way, there was no point in contemplating things. He was prepared for all this - of course he was going to see you and Kashimo together, that was normal, you’d come here together, he just needed some time for the reunion to get rolling, then Satoru would swoop in and kick things into motion. 

But first, he needed to make himself as friendly as possible. 

“Got space for me here?” His crimson eyes were fixed on you as he approached the table. “You guys are the first people I’ve seen that I actually know, I mean, did these people even go to our high school?” He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of the other tables. 

“I’m certain you have other friends you can sit with.” Yuki deadpanned, her expression less than pleased with his presence. He’d anticipated such a response, so he ignored her entirely, keeping his gaze set on you. 

You wouldn’t cast him aside, not after all the time you’d been spending together over the last few weeks. You were friends, and what kind of person would turn away a friend? Definitely not a kind soul like you. 

“Of course you can sit with us.” You chirped with a smile, gesturing to the empty seat next to Choso. “We were just talking about that time that Gojo got really drunk before a school dance and then got up on the stage and confessed his love to Shoko.” 

“Humiliating.” Shoko said, covering her eyes, “I still get nightmares about it.”

“I think Satoru does too.” Sukuna said with a laugh. 

He could remember that night well - him and Satoru had drunk a shit ton of absinthe before the dance, and unlike Sukuna, Satoru had no skill at all in holding his liquor. Shoko had tried to help get him in a car and safely home, only for him to escape her grip and tell her that he loved her. 

He couldn’t remember anything the next day, and considering that he’d been dating some other girl at the time, she wasn’t best pleased at hearing her boyfriend profess his love for someone else. 

It was really funny though. Even Satoru could laugh about it now that the humiliation had worn off a little. 

“Oh, Sukuna, this is Kashimo by the way,” you said as the laughter died down. “Kashimo, this is Sukuna, he’s an old friend of mine.” 

“Hey man,” Sukuna said politely, holding a hand out for Kashimo to shake. He ensured that his grip was strong, almost testing the other man’s strength and finding him to be inferior, just as Sukuna had expected. 

“Damn, you’re pretty bulky. Do you live at the gym?” Kashimo asked, pulling his hand back and shaking it ever so slightly, as if trying to hide the extent to which the handshake had bruised him. 

“Something like that. Working construction keeps me strong.” 

“Oh, do you guys work together?” Kashimo asked, glancing between the two of you. 

“Kinda.” You shrugged non-comittally. “I mostly work alone because I’m inside the office all day while he’s out doing the actual work.” 

Sukuna sucked on his lower lip, very interested in the way that you’d effectively just lied. Considering that Sukuna was in your trailer every day without fail, your response didn’t make a whole lot of sense - it was clear that you didn’t want Kashimo to know how close the two of you actually were. 

That was fine. It just reassured him that you definitely still had feelings for him. If you had nothing to hide, you’d be more upfront about your friendship. 

“What do you do Kashimo? Something creative? You’ve got that cool look about you,”

Kashimo practically beamed at the praise, completely disarmed as he launched into a whole spiel about his music charity thing, which Sukuna had no interest in listening to because he’d already heard it all from you. Not to mention, he could probably recite that man’s whole life story after all the internet stalking he and Satoru had engaged in. 

Some people were just so easy to play - give them the smallest compliment and they were really ready to believe that someone had their best interest at heart. Thank god for fools like him making Sukuna’s life so much easier. 

Largely zoning out Kashimo’s words while he droned on and on, Sukuna’s gaze flickered momentarily over to you, satisfied at the realisation that you were already staring at him with wide eyes. It was almost like you were seeing him for the first time, comparing him to the man at your side and finding yourself captivated by your old flame. 

He offered you a smug smile, meant only for you, appearing and disappearing in the span of a couple of seconds. He then turned his attention back to Kashimo, and proceeded to slip into his role. Until Satoru came to drop his bombshell, Sukuna would be nothing less than perfect. 

It was after food had been served out on the tables that the part of the plan he’d been awaiting finally fell into place. 

Sukuna had headed away from the table for a while, under the guise of wanting to speak with Toji, but really because he wanted to give Satoru a window to speak with you without him being there. 

They’d discussed it beforehand - Satoru was to wait for Sukuna to leave the table and that was his cue to go and deliver the news to you. 

Away from Kashimo, of course. 

And his blue-eyed friend seemed to play the role perfectly, heading up to your table and engaging in excitable small talk just like he always would, making all the girls laugh raucously. He spent almost five minutes building rapport at the table, before turning to you and saying something with a serious expression, having you follow him over to a more secluded part of the room. 

From there, you were out of Sukuna’s line of vision, and he just had to hope that Satoru would deliver the message like he was supposed to. He should really have more faith in the man, but he felt jittery about the idea of anything going wrong. He’d already destroyed one chance with you and it had cost him four years of time at your side. 

He didn’t want to fuck this chance up. 

“Hey, who's the hot guy at your table?” 

He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Uro sidling up to him, swirling wine in her glass. Her eyes were fixed on Kashimo, who was still locked in conversation with Choso.

Shrugging, he mumbled an answer about how Kashimo was your boyfriend, uninterested in really engaging in conversation with someone as annoying as Uro.

“Really? He’s so hot, better looking than Ryu. How does she even get these guys?”

Sukuna was moments away from telling her to fuck off, potentially proceeded by a long rant about how Uro couldn’t even begin to compare to your level of beauty, but he held himself back as a sudden thought popped into his head. 

How would you feel if you came back from your harrowing conversation with Satoru, only to see your boyfriend chatting with Uro? 

He shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve heard this guy is rich as fuck too. Apparently he gets into all the best clubs in the city. He’s a real catch. I feel like he’s probably on the fence about their relationship too right now.” 

Shooting a sidelong glance at Uro, he caught the way that her eyes practically lit up at his words. It was an insane reaction since she was currently dating Toji, who was only two metres away, but she’d always been a shameless little golddigger. 

She ran a hand through her long pink hair, pulling a compact mirror from her purse and quickly applying a new layer of lip gloss before making off in the direction of the table, swinging her hips seductively as she walked. Sukuna wanted to roll his eyes at the corniness of the display, but he wasn’t going to deny that Uro was effectively doing him a favour, so he wouldn’t ridicule her too much. 

Taking another sip of his drink, he watched the scene play out. Uro pulled out a chair next to Kashimo, giggling and leaning in close as she introduced herself. Her body language couldn’t be more obvious, but Kashimo seemed to indulge her all the same, clearly giving her the same speech that he’d given Sukuna, as if she was there with friendly intent. 

You clearly didn’t take it that way, because as you stumbled back into Sukuna’s field of vision, your expression already stormy, you stumbled to a halt mere paces away from your table, lips parting in shock at the sight. 

Uro had moved on to touching Kashimo’s shoulder when she laughed, and that happened to be the position they were in when you saw them. Sukuna watched the hurt and betrayal cross your pretty face, eyes shimmering with tears as you turned away silently, walking off down the hall and abandoning Kashimo to his conversation. 

Perfect. 

Things literally couldn’t have been working out any more perfectly than they were. 

He gave it a couple of minutes to not make things look obvious before heading down the hallway after you, pushing through the double doors and into the dark corridor beyond, heading to where the toilets were located. He hoped that was where you were, it would be annoying if you’d just up and left, but he supposed he could always drop by your house in that case. 

About ten minutes elapsed before he started to get fidgety, wondering if he should go and look for your car outside. Fortunately, the bathroom door swung open before he could make the decision to leave. 

You stumbled out into the hallway, your eyes and cheeks red from crying, eyes widening in surprise as you practically stumbled into him, steadied by his hands gently gripping your shoulders. 

“You okay?” He asked, eyes taking in your disheveled form. You still looked beautiful, even with your dress all crumpled, your make-up smeared every so slightly. 

“Yep. Peachy!” You said with a shuddering breath, fresh tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, hands soothing your shoulders softly, playing the perfect role of concerned friend as if he didn’t already know everything you were about to tell him. 

“It's nothing, just stupid stuff. I think I’m just gonna go home. I just realised that high school actually sucked for me so I don’t know why I thought it would be fun to be reminded of it.” 

Sukuna tilted his head sympathetically, thumbs rubbing circles into your soft skin. “Is this about Uro?” 

You barked out a humourless laugh. “So you saw then? I bet everyone did.” 

“Yeah, she’s pretty shameless.” 

“It wasn’t like he was stopping it either,” you shot back, lip wobbling ever so slightly. “I’m not really surprised after everything I heard from Gojo earlier, but I feel like I just got overloaded with information and its fucking me up. I feel like I’m sixteen again finding out that Ryu fucked Yorozu.” 

“Everything you heard from Gojo?” He pressed, his face a practiced picture of confusion. 

You shook your head. “Don’t get me started. Turns out Kashimo wasn’t really who I thought he was, so now I just feel like a big idiot.” He could feel you shaking beneath his grip, completely blindsided by everything that was happening so quickly. 

He hummed, pretending to think that over, before dropping a hand down to your wrist. “Come on, let's get you some fresh air. Sounds like you need it.” He softly tugged you down the corridor, and you followed with little resistance, letting him keep your wrist firmly in his grip as he led you out the back of the school. 

The two of you ended up on the field out the back of the building, and Sukuna dragged you over to a bench, sitting you down and making it clear that you had his rapt attention. 

“Tell me what happened, I feel like everything’s a bit too fragmented for me to piece together.” 

“Gojo knows Kashimo. He met him at one of those gigs that Kashimo runs. He said he saw him doing drugs and publicly touching other women.” You took a deep breath. “I know we aren’t exclusive, I chose that, but Kashimo was always telling me that he wanted to be exclusive, that I was the only one he was seeing. He always said he never did any of that partying stuff too. Guess it was all lies.” 

Sukuna stayed silent for a moment, red eyes fixed on the field before him as he contemplated what to say next. He figured that to really put himself in your good graces, he might as well take a gamble. 

“Are you sure? Maybe Satoru was talking about someone else.” 

You shook your head, offering Sukuna a little smile as thanks for his optimism. “I don’t see why Gojo would bother to lie about it. It's not like Kashimo is easily mistaken for someone else, and this happened at a gig for one of the bands that Kashimo manages - there’s no mistaking it. Satoru said he could show me some private Myspace profile Kashimo has, but to be honest, I’m not sure I even want to see.” 

Your lack of interest would spell a serious waste of several hours of Sukuna and Satoru’s time, but he supposed he could live with that. 

“Seeing Uro all over him kinda just affirmed everything Gojo had to say. I was on the fence about him anyway, so this is just a sign I guess.” 

“Mmm.” Sukuna started down at the daisies surrounding his feet, giving you the space to continue if you wished to. When you offered him nothing but silence, he opted to fill it. “If you were on the fence anyway, why do you seem so upset?” 

His question was tender, expression soft as he gazed into your teary eyes. Instinctively one of his hands found its way to your cheek, carefully wiping away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. You let him do it, taking another deep shuddering breath. 

“It's not really about Kashimo, I guess.” 

“Then what’s it about?” 

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just- I feel like this is how it always goes for me. Guys who seem nice make me think I can trust them, only for the rug to be pulled out from under me. Ryu seemed lovely until he fucked Yorozu, Kashimo seemed perfect until I found out he was doing all this shit behind my back. Do I just have a terrible judge of character?” 

“Maybe.” He hummed, a soft smile spreading over his face at the way you pouted up at him, clearly not in the mood for jokes. “Men tend to be pigs.” 

“You included?” You asked. 

Oh, definitely.

“I mean, I took the chance to sleep with you the second things went wrong with Ryu, so yeah, I guess it includes me. I’d never pull any of the shit they pulled with you though, I can guarantee that.” 

You nodded thoughtfully, eyes glancing down at your hands in your lap. Sukuna’s hand was still gently caressing your face, stilling tears in their path. He wasn’t sure why you hadn’t pulled back yet, but he’d gladly push his luck as far as it would go. 

“If Uro so much as looked at me I’d tell her to fuck off. Yorozu too. Any woman, actually.” 

You huffed softly. “I believe that.” 

“Yeah?” He’d almost thought that you’d hit back and call him just as bad as everyone else that you’d dated. He was arguably worse - not in his treatment of you of course, but fundamentally as a human being. 

“Yeah, I saw how you treated Yorozu back in high school. You never gave her the time of day.” 

He scrunched up his nose. “Obviously not. She’s annoying as hell. I’m glad she disappeared.” 

“Me too.” 

That caught him off guard, because he’d always thought that you were just too kind to really admit to such a thing out loud. Apparently not. That was a good sign, it meant that one day, in the distant, distant future, you might be receptive to hearing about all he’d done to have you at his side. 

“Honestly, I wish Uro would just disappear too,” you added. 

“Never say never. Maybe she’ll fuck off to be a star too.” 

“Maybe.” You said with a soft giggle. 

If only you knew how willing Sukuna was to make such a thing happen if you really wanted it. For now he was keen to keep Uro alive, because she could certainly serve a purpose just like she had today, but perhaps one day, when he could be more honest with you about his actions, he could kill her for you as a big profession of love. 

Wouldn’t that be romantic? 

“I’m being serious though, you know. I’d never do anything but treat you with the reverence you deserve.” Slowly he pulled his hand back from your face, before sliding his arm around your shoulders. It was a cautious action, allowing you ample time to shuffle away. But you stayed perfectly still - just like all the other times he’s reached for you. 

Your lips parted in surprise, a soft smile gracing your features as you nodded, leaning into his side ever so slightly. “Noted.” 

“I know you’ve got all these reservations about us - the guilt and all that shit. But twice now your choices have failed you. Perhaps it's time to start doing the opposite of what you believe the best path to be.” 

He wasn’t sure what to think of the way that you giggled.

“You really want me huh?” You wiped tears from your cheeks as you gazed up at him, a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “Spouting all this deep thought nonsense just to try and make me give you a chance.” 

He smirked down at you, giving your shoulder a squeeze. He could’ve backed down, argued that everything he was saying was genuine, but you didn’t seem unhappy, so he figured it was best to go along with the flow. 

“Yeah, you got me. But I don’t think you’re opposed to it. I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.” 

The way that you bit on your lower lip was painfully sexy. You made no effort to deny his words, and that might as well have been an admission of love in his eyes. 

“You’re so infuriating,” you said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“And incredibly persistent.” 

“Some would see that as a positive,” he pointed out with a smile. You seemed more at ease now, your tears having stopped entirely. You shook your head with amusement, his heart fluttering in his chest at the action. 

“Look, I’m not having this conversation right now, outside of some stupid reunion where I’ve just found out my boyfriend has been lying to me for months.” 

“So you’re saying you’d be willing to have this conversation another time?” 

You rolled your eyes, shooting him an incredulous look. “You have really selective hearing.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

You snorted. “You’re right, it's not. I just need some time, gotta deal with this Kashimo thing, and figure out if I could even forgive myself for what we did all those years again. Then maybe we can have this conversation.” 

“Mmm, so you do really like me, huh?” 

Letting out a deep sigh, you slipped out from under his arm and stood up, stretching a little. “If Ryu hadn’t died that night…I don’t know. Things might be different - I guess they still could be. Of course I like you, I’ve always liked you.” 

“Me too-” 

“But, like I said, that’s a conversation for another time. I’ve been running from those feelings for four years and I’m not going to jump into your arms the same night that I find out my boyfriend’s been fucking me over. Be patient and maybe good things will come your way.” 

His eyes were shiny with joy, staring up at you eagerly. He sort of enjoyed the way that you were tugging at his leash, laying down the law with him. It was the most you’d ever given him outside of that night that Ryu died. 

He was fucking ecstatic. 

“For now, I’m gonna go back inside, I’m gonna tell Kashimo I feel ill and get the fuck out of here. Then I’m gonna berate him over text message and tell him we’re done.” The initial shock of the situation seemed to have worn off for you, tearful expression giving way for something more hardened. 

You’d grown up a lot from the girl who’d crumbled upon finding out about Ryu’s cheating. 

“And you’re gonna wipe that stupid smirk off your face and go back in there, and you’re gonna act like none of this happened. When I’m ready to talk to you about what I feel for you, I’m gonna let you know. Is that acceptable?” 

He was really struggling to wipe the grin off his face, such an action wasn’t inherently in his nature. But he did give you an affirmative nod - he’d take a few moments before rejoining the reunion to try and stop himself from looking too excited. 

It wouldn’t do to have Kashimo suspecting anything. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he purred.

You stared down at him for a moment, nibbling on your lip for a second before leaning down and planting a quick kiss on his lips. It happened so fast that he hardly had time to register it, failing to kiss you back in any capacity. That was probably for the best, because if he’d had time to do anything, he would’ve pulled you into his lap and kept you there. 

Before he could speak, you were gone, stalking back towards the doors to the school, a slight blush warming your cheeks. He was practically frozen, basking in the feeling of affection that overcame him at the contact, savouring the taste of your lipgloss. 

He needed more of that.

And soon he’d get it. 

—

The rest of the reunion passed without issue. You disappeared off home, and Kashimo stayed for about half an hour before calling it quits himself. 

Sukuna couldn’t quite decide if Kashimo sensed something amiss with your behaviour when you stopped by his table to say goodbye. He didn’t think that it really mattered. As far as he was concerned, his gambit had paid off and his position with you was finalised. You were going to break up with Kashimo and everything would work out in Sukuna’s favour. 

And to make sure there was no chance of anything getting in his way, Sukuna had some matters to take into his own hands. 

He needed to make sure that you and Kashimo had no opportunity to talk about the accusations, and that meant dealing with Kashimo, before he could start asking questions around the specifics of why he was being broken up with. 

He’d be more careful than he was with Ryu, he’d learned from that experience. You couldn’t find out that Kashimo was dead - this time Sukuna was going to make sure that the man disappeared. You already believed that he was a piece of shit who’d been cheating behind your back, it wouldn’t be too far a reach for you to believe he’d simply gotten tired of you and ghosted. 

It would be even easier for you to believe if Kashimo were to send you a shitty text from his phone. 

Yeah, Sukuna would do this in a much better manner than he did with Ryu. There was no space for sloppiness this time around. 

“Car trouble?” 

Sukuna had pulled his car up next to Kashimo's, leaning out the window as he observed the blue-haired man. Your boyfriend was pulled over just outside of town, the hood of his car open, with him bent over it with a look of defeat creasing his brow. 

A flicker of relief registered in his blue eyes at the sight of Sukuna, grinning at him from his own perfectly functioning truck.

“Yeah, something’s fried. Don’t know what. I only took this thing to the garage recently, can’t believe it's breaking down on me already.” 

“I can take a look, I’m pretty good with cars,” Sukuna said with a friendly smile. 

“That would be a big help.” 

Sukuna shut off his truck and leapt out, rounding the car to take a look at the engine. He wasn’t really looking at it, since he was already well aware of what the issue was, having caused it himself. It was easy to sneak into the carpark during the reunion when no one was around, giving him ample opportunity to fuck with Kashimo’s shitty little car. 

“Alternator’s clearly fucked,” he said finally. “I could hit it with a hammer and you might get a few more miles out of her, but you’re gonna need to get that shit replaced as soon as possible.”

“Think it would manage seventy miles?” Kashimo asked, sounding defeated. 

“Doubtful.”

“Shit.” 

“My dad’s got a garage though, I could go and see if he can help out? I should even be able to get you the friends and family discount, although he’s a stingy asshole so we’ll have to see what mood he’s in.” Sukuna stepped back, slamming the hood of the car closed and walking back to his own truck. 

So far this was going exactly as he’d hoped - part of him had been worried that the alternator would hang on for longer than he ideally wanted, and he’d have to follow the fucker halfway home. Running into him out on the highway would be much harder to explain than meeting him just outside of town.

It seemed like it was his lucky day. 

“Hop in, you might as well come with me rather than hanging out around here. There’s weird folk about.” He had to bite down on his lower lip to not chuckle at the irony of his statement, since Kashimo would be far safer if he remained in his car. 

Kashimo gave him a grateful smile, clearly sensing nothing amiss. He rummaged around in his car for a few moments and grabbed his backpack before jumping into the passenger side of Sukuna’s truck. “Thanks man, I owe you one. You’re a good guy, can see why my girl gets along with you.” 

“Yeah?” 

He started up the engine, taking a glance over his shoulder before doing a U-Turn and heading back towards town. He imagined that most people would feel stressed if they were in his position, going back and forth in their minds about whether they should go through with their plan. Perhaps their hearts would be thumping, blood rushing in their ears. 

Sukuna felt none of that. He was completely calm, his heart rate steady, his mind clear. Now that he had Kashimo in his car he felt secure, because he knew with certainty that he could carry out the next bit with flawless efficiency. 

He’d done it before - more than once. In this sort of field, that practically made someone a professional. 

All he’d felt when he’d killed Ryu was satisfaction. The same when he bashed Yorozu’s head in. He’d feel no more remorse over Kashimo. He’d do anything if it meant that he could be at your side, with all potential threats thoroughly eliminated. 

Could anyone really blame him for doing such a thing? He was in love.

“Yeah, not many people would bother helping some guy they barely know - I’m just the new boyfriend of your buddy, it's not like you have any obligation!” Kashimo said fondly. Sukuna had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at how thickly the man was laying on the praise. “You’re a pretty cool dude, y’know?” 

Sukuna chuckled, eyes locked on the road ahead of him. 

“Don’t sweat it. I’m really just doing her a favour.” 

a/n: reader be folding for him so easily :(

hope you enjoyed the chapter and thank you for the support! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always! <3

taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @alebrasil0101 @unikittylover57 @maomimii @xadenpoop @mxchiii @tinkspen @martianzmars @drasticallyinluv @grimm3r @choyuxx @janellawliet @nanamigirl4ever @actuallynarii @aiive @chloe022r @targaryenposts @erasersslut @loulasav @natsolox @kenstarsworld @elviqss @blu3berryies @cupidstrace @ksjtozaki @feyrinnn @heartless-rythm @beaniesayshi @shazzer29 @mortallyshadysoul @neverlandqueen36 @sweethoneycream @mikkmmmii @sikurgvx @8nitxe @lexispeak @inmywhitegown @unlimited-impressions @absolutelycaffeinateddevil @paulineeo @onlykuna @jjkfannn34 @queendom-of-yuki @blinmkk @emmaiscool22 @angelbabyy111 @moonsquid49 @0imliterallybatman @crunchycathy @yailuxe 

© sukunahs

[ikeuriuu]

fuck this is so good LAWDDD

[ikeuriuu]

when u got so fucking sad about march 10, so the only way to cope is to join ur previous fandoms LFMAOOAOOOO

[vennywrites]

Rule of Beasts

Pairing: Heian!Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader

Wordcount: 16.9k

Summary: You are the beginning of his end. Sukuna invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm or that moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety. Nothing as strong as a bond honed by misery and shared meals, knowing each other inside and out before either of you had grown sharp teeth and claws and hollow eyes. Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Gore, Blood, Murder, Implied Cannibalism, Animal Death, Abandonment, Assault, Mutilation (Reader), Mental Health Disorders, Depression, Desecration of Religious Shrines, Historical Inaccuracies, Unhealthy Relationship, Obsession, Sex (first time writing smut, please be kind), Blood Play, Kidnapping, Major Character Death, I make my own stuff up about what happened during Sukuna’s original lifespan bc who can make sense of it all? Not me!

a/n: It's finally here and I am so excited and so anxious about it. This is my entry for @sweethearticism's Brutal Bakery Collab. I tried to challenge myself to do things I've never done before (ehem, writing smut) and I'm kind of really scared if it does the whole challenge any justice. But I had a blast writing and I suppose that's the most important part. An absolute Angstfest for all of us fans of Despair, Heartbreak and Misery. English isn't my first language.

Pinterest Board, read it on Ao3

I.

The shrine is already occupied.

When Sukuna arrives - abandoned, dirty, rags hanging off his body and hair disheveled and matted at the back - you already sit in the doorway, the peach’s nectar dripping down your chin.

He is starving. And all his life, Sukuna only ever knew how to fight everything that got in his way. The shinsen is hidden inside, illuminated by golden candlelight and blocked off by your body.

You’re one of the first to not run when you spot him, crawling up the stairs on his arms and legs. Shortly, he considers you might just be too weak to run from him.

It’s all the same to him in the end. You’re in his way and he will carve his path through everything.

Strangely, he does not even manage to cross all the distance before you extend your arm, so thin he could crush it like fish bones. In your palm, the half eaten peach, dripping and delicious.

Wordlessly you offer him food and he just might take your whole hand for it. Neither hand nor body shake as you hold it out before you and when he snarls and snaps at you, you only blink and mimic his grimace.

Your growl is a pathetic thing, small and weak and the sound that leaves you only that of a day old kitten. Orphaned and young, you live by what the wild has taught you. Take from the weak and ally with the strong. You try, you do.

“Yours,” you offer, carefully. And he rips the fruit from your hand, hears your fingers crack as he tugs too hard on them but you don’t flinch away and he doesn’t stay to assess the damage. Tearing through the shrine, he devours the peach and everything else it has to offer.

“Mine,” he snarls back and you watch quietly, eyes vacant and skin sticky.

In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

And only you could push him to ruin the world in your name, so completely that one life time just isn’t enough.

[ikeuriuu]

I miss writing gang

[bywons]

ME AND MY HUSBAND | PJS

SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.

OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer

GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish

PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )

WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use

WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words

AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3

FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

[cupcakewon]

i wish heeseung had a pussy

[ikeuriuu]

When smb tell me jw is a sub so i just lowknuinely laugh, but they acc serious

[ikeuriuu]

the irrational fear of orgasming 🥹

[ikeuriuu]

sometimes a fic is so good, u dont focus on ur love interest.. u just lowk cry bc the backstory just kills you. Even the family is more interesting than the romance

[tinysunshine-deactivated2026020]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

  [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

warnings and triggers: extremely dark subject matter, graphic mentions of abuse. sexual trauma. hints that daryl might be autistic. name calling. no smut, but moments of fluff. slight alternate universe.

word count: 9.4k

you and daryl grew up in broken homes. bonded by the abuse you both suffered, you find comfort in each other. but as you grow up, you drift apart, although the connection between you two never fully goes away.

when you reconnect as adults, you both realize that the love between you two has always been more than just friendship - it was also survival during the rough times, and in each other you find healing. in daryl, you realize that home isn’t always four walls and a roof.

sometimes, it’s a man with rough hands and a kind soul, who’s always had your best interest at heart. who knows all your demons - and loves you anyway.

you grew up with daryl - but instead of riding bikes around the neighborhood and telling fairy tales like a normal kid, you trauma bond over stories about your abusive family situations and collect empty beer bottles littered around both of your childhood homes to throw baseballs at, looking for any form of entertainment to get through the day. you’re practically neighbors, and as you grow up you’re more like brother and sister than just friends. shared trauma will do that to anyone.

during the summer, you stay awake and out of your homes until it’s dark, looking for frogs and eating berries, finding loose change on the road and walking the mile to the little convenience store in town to buy and share a bag of chips. you stay out until merle comes looking for daryl, or your own brother calls out to you, yelling, “get your ass inside or i’m locking you out!”

daryl and you always exchange a look, one that’s founded in humor, a ‘look what i deal with everyday’ expression while you try to act strong - but you both know it’s a very thin thread that holds your emotions, your hope, together these days. the only thing that brings a little light into either of your worlds is the friendship you have with one another.

you don’t have to hide around daryl. both of you can be your broken selves, show your bruises around each other. it’s not even embarrassing to bring daryl into your home, because his home is just the same. dirty, loud, a place that has you constantly tense and ready to defend yourself.

daryl is like your shadow, and you’re his. wherever you go, he goes. wherever he goes, you go.

you’re so close - until you’re not.

────

as teenagers, you grow apart.

you get pretty - and a little slutty. you look for validation from the mean guys at school, offer yourself up to any man that reminds you of your father. your beauty is your currency, your weapon, but also your biggest curse. makes it so you don’t even want to be around your father when he’s drunk, or your brother or his friends for that matter.

you’re busy, flunking your classes and stealing fashion magazines from the same convenience store you used to go to with daryl as kids with pockets full of change. you spend your time in bedrooms, mostly yours, hanging up photos from those precious magazines on your wall to cover up the cigarette smoke stained wallpaper. but you also spend a lot of time in the bedrooms or truck beds of different men.

sometimes, you wonder about daryl - the boy with the haunted eyes that was your lifeline and such a big part of your childhood. he’s just as much of the voice in your head as your own is, and when you walk home alone, from school or the store or past his house without catching a glimpse of him, you think back to the memories you shared together. the games you played, when there was still a little bit of innocence in the both of you.

like pretending to be cops, with daryl being the good cop and you being the bad. hide and seek by the stream in the woods that destroyed both of your school shoes, and you only got one pair a year, in just one weekend. grabbing an old bowl from your house to collect grass and leaves and little rocks and mud, so you could play family and make dinner, pretending the random squirrels that ran past you both were your pets. it was an idealized version of a family from the television you watched - because neither one of you have any actual memories of your mothers cooking.

or your favorite game: royalty, when daryl made you both crowns out of old grass and twigs and bestowed upon you the most important title you’ve ever held: mud queen to his mud king. like you were married or something.

on especially rough days in your present, you swear you see the tiny, muddy footprints of you and daryl when you’re walking on a trail back to your house. when you’d both check to make sure your fathers were at the bar or out of the house so you could sit next to each other on either of your couches, and share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on stale bread, watch cartoons on televisions with grainy screens and bad audio.

you still remember how daryl likes his peanut butter sandwiches. lots of spread, a little jelly, and if there was one available - a whole banana smashed up inside.

you wonder if he remembers anything about you. you wonder if he even thinks of you at all.

────

daryl’s not like the rest of the guys in town, and that’s good - because he was always worried he would be. used to look at merle and your brother in disgust and hatred whenever they were high or drunk or just being themselves. and you don’t know daryl anymore, not at all, but what you do know about him, hear about him - you can tell that he kept those promises to himself.

promises to you, when you’re feeling extra sorry for yourself.

you have a memory of him walking into your bedroom so you could show him a new coloring book you got. you were much too old to be so excited about a coloring book, but daryl was ranting about how much he hated his family, and you wanted to cheer him up.

you notice this in your life even though you’re almost all grown up. maybe coming from poverty, having nothing, being denied a real childhood - it keeps you young. interested in things that normal people your age would’ve outgrown already.

like now, with your bed full of stuffed animals you could’ve never afforded as a kid, but that you’re so excited you can give to yourself now. back then, it was that coloring book that your mom’s boyfriend of the month, when she finally remembered she had a daughter and came to visit, gave to you. it had unicorns on it and you also had a brand new pack of crayons.

but when you opened your drawer looking for it, excited to show daryl, there was just a bunch of broken crayons and ripped up pages. your eyes watered, and daryl stopped his story about his father putting out a cigarette on his hand to see what was wrong. his expression fell, seeing what was in the drawer, and he picked up whatever was left of the coloring pages. your brother walked by your bedroom at the same time, and he saw what was in daryl’s hand.

he shook his head, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. daryl stepped in front of you, and you don’t even think he realized he was doing it, but you remember that it was obvious that he was turning into a man. he was finally taller than you, and too strong now to climb up and into your favorite tree. your brother scoffed, like he was disgusted just by your presence.

you knew that feeling all too well.

“yer too old for a coloing book anyway. what you do to get that, huh? mom didn’t give me anything. she didn’t even say hi, but you - you whoring yourself out like her already?”

you saw daryl’s hand tense up. he grabbed onto the coloring book so hard it was damaging it more, but you didn’t say anything. just whispered, “let’s go for a walk,” as soft as you could until your brother walked away.

and on that walk, daryl grabbed at his hair and kicked empty cans in the road.

“god,” he groaned angrily, and you still remember that he was the only man or boy you’d ever been around who’s anger didn’t scare you. “i’ll never be like them. i swear it,” he ranted the entire walk. you stopped at the convenience store again.

the guy at the front hassled daryl about telling merle to pay up, and daryl hassled him back, which was unusual. you didn’t realize why he did that, until you both left.

on the way back home, daryl pressed a fresh pack of crayons into your hand. he had been distracting the guy at the counter so he could steal it. he shrugged. “can always just use regular paper,” he suggested, and you remember leaning on your tip toes to kiss his cheek.

nowadays, daryl sticks to himself, and eventually, drops out of high school. but you know he’s still in town because you see him sometimes when your brother drags you to the dixon place to pick up a bag of something to get him high. you never talk to daryl, but sometimes you see that he’s there, from his crossbow by the door or a banana on the kitchen counter - because merel wouldn’t eat that gay shit. or sometimes you hear him in his room, blasting music while merle bangs on his door and roars at him to “turn that shit down!”

you don’t know if he’s avoiding you or just avoiding the world. you wonder why you grew apart exactly. you have some theories, because there was never a falling out between you two. one day - you just stopped hanging out. you don’t even remember how it happened.

both of you just wanted to outgrow the shitty childhood you had, maybe hope for something better as you got older. did it happen? no. but the memories you have together are just reminders of the abuse you’ve seen the other handle. the dreams you bonded over, about escaping this town and your families - they never came true. looking at each other is just a reminder of that.

but your paths keep crossing. it is a small town, after all.

────

daryl sees you at a party one day, being shoved in a room by three guys that you don’t know beause you’re drunk and your reputation precedes you. he pulls you out of the room and gets in a fight in your honor, one against too many to win but daryl is a dixon and can hold his own. he walks you home and when you thank him he just shakes his head. won’t even look you in the eye. “quit bein fuckin’ stupid,” he says, and it hurts. but you know he’s not wrong.

it’s not your fault that you got shoved in a room, but it is your fault that you can’t say no. it is your fault, that you dumb yourself down so you’re easier to use, anything for a crumb of attention from a man who might be your ticket out of this town. you don’t want to be ashamed, but you are. of the woman you are, of the one you’re becoming - at the things you’ve done, just for an ego boost that ultimately ruined your self esteem even more.

daryl can see through you, even after all this time. and you hate it.

you see him smoking on the steps of a diner a few days later, eye bruised and black and nearly shut. his hair is dark and floppy and he’s so handsome, but your heart hurts when you see that even though he’s getting taller than his dad and merle, even though he’s strong now, the way he always used to wish he was as a kid, with big arms and shoulders from buffing up on his porch with the weights merle has - he’s still a punching bag.

you know the feeling. you gaze down at the bruise on your wrist, hidden by a tight sweater. it’s the sad proof that daryl is a stranger now, that you have to hide things from him that you never would’ve had to hide when you were kids. although: both are fucking sad situaions. the fact that you were kids, bonding over bruises anyway.

you walk up to him, and he offers you a cigarette. you shake your head. “good girl,” he says mockingly, and you hate the way that your body heats up. you can’t deny that you feel like he’s mocking you, like cigarettes are where you draw the line in terms of risky behavior, but you try not to dwell on it. it’s just nice to see him.

“they got you good,” you say, referring to his eye and the party. “thanks for helping me.” you don’t know what else to say, aren’t really thinking - you just want daryl to talk to you again. but daryl just shakes his head, scoffs and walks off. but not before putting his cigarette out, stepping on it with his scuffed up boot.

“wasn’t from that fuckin’ party,” he says, about his eye. “you know that.”

you don’t speak again for years.

────

in a blink of an eye, you go from two damaged kids to two fucked up adults.

daryl, a man now, big and strong and tough. handsome, dirty, rough. you see him in town sometimes, around his brother and their fucked up friends. or maybe they’re just merle’s friends, but you can’t judge. the people you hang around aren’t exactly good.

you hear the whispers about him, how nobody can read him, how he’s stupid, or a creep with anger issues - all things you know aren’t true. you know that, because they say shit about you too. that you’re stupid, slutty, a whore no better than your mother.

you don’t have an excuse for your behavior, but daryl does. you’ve got a television in your room now, and you watched a show one day that talked about…mental stuff. it was a little too complex for you to fully understand, but the doctor on the show explained somet things that just screamed out daryl to you. quiet, sensitive. they talked about some spectrum thing, and you wonder if that’s what daryl is on. why he’s so hard to understand.

why he dropped out when you saw him coming from a classroom that your peers used to always call the idiot class.

you wish you could tell him about it, but then again. what do you know? about life, or even about daryl in general.

you want out of this life, but you don’t know anything else. you don’t know how to get out. you wonder if daryl thinks about the future you used to dream about when you were kids. two apartments in the same complex, so you could always play together but got to experience your own space, you know? a big, color television. you have that now, but so does everyone. a fridge stocked with food and snacks. no beer allowed.

it’s a sad, funny thought. because every time you see daryl in town it’s with a beer bottle in his hand. and you, well - you’re never alone. never have truly experienced your own space that you’ve always yearned for.

these days, you see daryl as a stranger. not as a childhood friend. not anymore. and you certainly don’t see him as your brother. maybe you never did. because your brother is mean, with cruel hands and even crueler words. daryl could never be like that.

and you know that daryl doesn’t see you as his friend or his sister, or as anything different than the people in your town see you, because whenever he sees you at a bar in town, dressed up and on the arm of whatever shitty boyfriend you have, the way he looks at you, with the same disgust he used to look at your brothers with and something else in his eyes - it makes that clear.

although, when you’re hopeful, you hope that disgusted look is meant for whatever man you’re with and not you.

sometimes, when you know you might see him in passing, you dress up just a little sexier. but you’re not sure why. daryl’s not the type to think you’re any happier than you were as a kid, just because your skirt is short and you’re wearing cheap perfume. he’s not fooled by the charms of any woman, because he does have admirers. you embarrass yourself, for even thinking about getting his attention with your body and your looks. this is the same person who used to smear dirt on your face and call you mud queen, pretending to throw arrows with twigs before merle stole him his first crossbow.

daryl could give a shit about cleavage - and he sure as hell doesn’t think being chosen makes someone any more worthy. you should take notes.

while it’s a good feeling that deep inside, daryl might be the same person he always was, it scares you a little bit. because maybe you’re the only one who’s different. and not better in this case.

sometimes you feel even worse off than when you were a kid.

────

you’re walking home from the store one day, bag of groceries on your arm, when you run into daryl. he’s hopping on his motorcycle, and it starts to rain, which sucks - not because you don’t want to get wet, but because you’ve got makeup covering your black eye and the hand prints on your neck, that’ll surely wash off on the long walk back to your house in this weather.

daryl spots you. he’s leaving the gas station. you’re humiliated that of all people, you run into him today. you pretend you don’t see him, and tighten your hold on the bag.

“hey,” he calls out as you pass him. his voice is different. a little deeper than you remember hearing, but you guess it makes sense - you’re both all grown up. you always wished for that, but now you’re not so sure it was the right wish. because you’re in the same position you were in as a kid.

maybe you should’ve wished for a ride out of this town instead.

you look back at daryl, and give a tight lipped smile and nod of your head to let him know you saw him. you keep walking, but as embarrassed as you are, you’re pretty happy that he’s talking to you.

he starts up the motorcycle, and you wait for him to speed by you. a thought occurs to you, that he’s always wanted a bike like that. used to talk about it as a kid, used maple syrup to stick pictures of motorcycles from his father’s magazines to his bedroom wall.

you’re happy for him. it must feel good, to finally get something you want. you don’t know what that feels like. maybe daryl is happy in this town, and it’s just you who’s so miserable you’re projecting that onto everyone else.

the motorcycle stops right beside you, and you’re closer to daryl than you’ve been in years. you see his face, with more lines than he had the last time you spoke to him. but just as handsome as ever, hair longish and dark and in his eyes. you want to push it back, like you did with dirty, sticky hands back when you were kids.

“you need a ride?” he asks shyly, and you swallow hard, wondering if he remembers that was the first thing he said to you back when you were kids. the sentence that started your friendship.

you were stranded at school, your mom run off with a new man and your dad too drunk to give a fuck, brother probably high somewhere. daryl rode by on his run down bike, just slightly too big for him, the parts all mismatched - but at least it was wheels. he rode that thing until merle went to prison and coudn’t steal him anymore parts to fix it.

he asked you that same question then, and you still have the same answer.

“wanna ride?” he’d asked, no backpack or anything even though you were both leaving school. “you live by me. i’ve seen you.” you nodded, and got on, just like now.

it breaks the ice. much like it did when you were kids.

you realize that day, from a thought that's just as sweet as it is scary for someone like you - that history really does repeat itself.

────

suddenly, you’re not avoiding daryl anymore. and he’s not hiding from you. when you see him in town, you walk over to him to talk. you offer to go to his house to get shit for your brother from merle because you know you’ll see daryl, and you share a soda on the porch with him, sitting mostly in quiet, but daryl’s presence has always been comforting to you. not his words.

being around daryl now, as an adult - it doesn’t feel like friendship. it feels like something else. when you see him, ripped arms showing in a vest, his new camaraderie with his brother that feels more equal than it ever has before - you realize you’re attracted to him. it’s the first time you’ve ever though of daryl like that, and even though your friendship or whatever it is is growing, you pull back, scared.

it’s been a long time since you’ve been around a man who just wants to be your friend - and you trust daryl, but it’s hard to believe that’s all he wants. the pressure you’re making up all in your head starts getting to you, and you change.

start wearing makeup to your little porch sessions. a push up bra that’s a size too small. you’re a little jealous, you think one day, sitting on his porch after your own brother punched a hole in your bedroom wall because you drank the last orange soda, that daryl’s big enough now that his brother and father don’t pick on him, while you’re still at the mercy of the two men in your home who will always be bigger and stronger than you.

you see daryl one day when merle and his father are out so he’s alone at his place. you’re in a little, yellow sundress and daryl scoffs at you. “what the hell are you wearin?’” he asks, and you blush, attempting to sit on the dirty stairs of his porch. but he stops you by reaching a hand out and you flinch - and he notices. looks at you like he always did when you were a kid and he heard your father yelling at you. pity, but something like hurt in there too. hurt, maybe, that you flinched around him. but’s it not like you can control those types of reactions. your body is just being cautious.

daryl doesn’t say anything. he just puts that angel wing vest of his on the step so you can sit on it so you don’t ruin your dress, and it’s sweet but it makes you sad.

you’ve never had a guy be thoughtful to you before. only daryl - and that’s pathetic. you’ve shared your body with more men than you can count, and daryl doing something so normal makes you feel incredibly indebted to him.

“just wanted to feel pretty,” you tell him, embarrassed. he looks you over, shakes his head like you’re an idiot. maybe you are. you can’t say you’ve ever had a man not want to see you in a sundress, but you’re happy he’s noticing the effort you put in to be around him.

“don’ have to do shit to be pretty, mud queen,” he says. your stomach erupts in butterflies. he remembers. “yer already the prettiest girl in this garbage town.”

────

weeks go by, of sharing sodas on daryl’s porch, or bringing him those peanut butter sandwiches he likes so much when he stops by yours. eventually, those childlike foods progress to beer, and then somehow, some way, you kiss him.

it just happens. you’ve never been good with boundaries, and daryl has never made a move. you worry, even if you’re not conscious about it, that if you don’t show him you’re interested soon that he’ll be done hanging out with you. men play the long game that way. it’s all a game to them. you know daryl is different but still -

you put yourself out there. or maybe, a better term would be get desperate. you make it clear, how you’re feeling. and after his compliment, calling you the prettiest girl in your entire town, all you can think about is the fact that you got pretend married when you were kids. you found a dirty lace shirt in the back of your closet that must’ve belonged to your mom, and it looked like a veil you saw in a movie. and daryl humored you, used a leaf as a bow tie and held one of your dirty hands in his own as you said i do.

and then you admitted that you don’t know what being married actually means. how could you? you'd never seen a normal example of a family. “i think there’s supposed to be rings,” you remember telling daryl that day, and he just shrugged. “i’ve never heard of that,” he’d said.

but now you’re adults. and you're not a mud queen, you’re the town slut. and daryl isn’t the broody, quiet kid skinning frogs for fun, he’s strong and handsome and a man - and, okay, he's still broody and sinning frogs. but things are different, and so are you, but he’s still the daryl that always brought you peace.

you wonder, pressed arm to arm on his little porch step, what it'd be like to be married to someone like daryl. to daryl dixon himself. but you shake yourself out of those random, childish thoughts, because they do nothing but hurt. with your reputation, there's no way in hell anyone, even a man as kind as daryl, would ever actually marry you.

but daryl's always been your peace. even with the screaming and yelling and the violence in your home, or in this case, with merle screaming at the television inside of the dixon home -

you’re still that same little girl you've always been. desperately looking for someone to care. to love you. you push yourself into daryl’s arms and kiss him, and he kisses back for a second before pulling away. shoving you, although gently, back.

‘’m not one of those losers you gotta fuck for some attention,” he spits, and you’re speechless. embarrassed. he stands up, and you know it’s your cue to leave, especially when merle comes out. he overheard, despite the screaming. or laughing. hard to tell with merle.

“oh hell, little brother,” he teases. “you finally fuck her? wassit been? ten years? how much longer you gunna make her wait? she’s aching for it, comin’ here all the time. you sure your pecker works?” he goes on and on.

they starts bickering, and you leave, heading back to your home with nothing your brother asked of you - weed, something stronger. you’ve got nothing but the last piece of self-worth in your hand, and you want to just toss it down the toilet and flush it.

what kind of woman puts the moves on a man? it's so desperate. you're mortified, and as you pass the mirror in the entryway of your shitty home, you feel like the ugliest person on the planet.

of course, not having what your brother asked for causes a fight, only - you’re not daryl, and you’re not strong. it’s not a fair fight, and you end up with bruises so bad you just pack your sundress away, because there’s no way in hell you’ll get to wear it again by the time summer is over. it's long-sleeved shirts from now on.

you think you ruined whatever you had with daryl and you hate yourself. how stupid you were, treating him like some other guy. just because that’s the only way you connect with other men, doesn't mean that's the way to connect with daryl. you should known that, better than anyone.

you ignore him. avoid him. but it’s not like he’s seeking you out.

until one day, he comes to your window.

that’s how he used to ask you if you wanted to play, when you were kids. would walk through the dense woods, because he said he was never scared - which was a lie, because you’d seen his eyes when his father pulled his belt out of the closet one day. but maybe he just meant he was never scared of anything in the woods. he would throw a rock at your window to get your attention. anytime you ever watch a romantic movie with a window scene, you always think about daryl - and you wonder why it took so long for you to see him in that light.

why it took so long to realize that daryl dixon is so much more than the dirty, damaged boy you knew as a kid. but maybe that’s because it’s a scary realization. would mean that you could be more than the damaged, dirty little girl you used to be - and if that’s the case…what do you do? how do you move on and learn to live as someone you’ve never even known you could be?

you open your window when daryl taps on the glass. he doesn’t use a rock this time, probably because he remembers when your father shoved you against a wall for throwing a book against the television once as an accident. now that you think about it - the rock throwing did stop after that incident.

when you see daryl and open your window, all you say is, “i'm sorry.” he doesn’t say anything else, just crawls through the window, body almost too big, and lands with a thud after almost tripping. you giggle, so happy he’s not mad.

“room looks different,” he comments, sitting on your bed. he looks funny, a little filthy and all dark clothes, on your ratty, floral print bed covers in your trashy, uber pink room. you wish you’d cleaned up, but you never have anyone in here who matters.

never have had a man in your room who’s more interested in the design of of it rather than the little pajama set you’ve got on. you nod.

"i’m all grown up now, daryl,” you remind him, standing in front of him. “and so are you.” you’re not trying to excuse kissing him or making him uncomfortable, but maybe he forgot. you’re not kids. you’re not friends - you don’t call yourself brother and sister to the people at school after they question why daryl always shares his lunch with you.

it’s okay if he wants to kiss you back.

you wish he would.

he just looks at the ground, at your dirty carpet, the red nail polish on your toes that are so close to touching his boots. you follow his gaze. and then, he notices the bruises on your arms.

“whos been hurtin’ you?” he asks, and you understand why. you’re always seen with a different guy around town. or, you were, before daryl filled the void a few months ago. maybe he thinks it’s someone from town, but you’re too embarrassed to admit that it’s not. or maybe, he forgot that just because he’s bigger, can handle his brother and father - you’re not. it feels like he should really be asking who’s hurting you now?

you understand now, how he felt that day outside the diner. on the spot. like the answer is obvious, and someone is just trying to pry the truth you’re so ashamed of from your mouth. you bite your lip, shutting your eyes as you answer. “you know who.”

he looks from you to the door, hearing your brother laugh at something that’s playing on the television, before visibly taking a deep breath. he shakes his head as he exhales, pausing before his eyes look into yours. he’s quiet for so long, that you shift on your feet, looking for something to fill the silence the way his large frames fills your room.

“i don’t think of you like the other guys, daryl. i just. i dunno. i felt comfortable with you and,” you don’t know what to say. you’ve never had to apologize for coming onto someone before - and you’ve definitely never had anyone apologize for coming onto you.

he looks at you, neutral expression on his face, and then he sighs.

“come here,” he says, tugging you closer by the hand. gently. you stand between his legs, in nothing but your pajama camisole and a pair of shorts, and he kisses you. has to lean up a little from sitting, but it works. he wraps his arms around you, holds your body close, and when he rubs a hand down your back, your body shudders with sobs.

daryl is a good kisser. sweet. he’s timid, and you can tell he hasn’t had much experience. not compared to you, where kissing is like breathing at this point. you like that about him - it makes you, selfishly, happy.

but you’re still crying.

daryl pulls away, visibly confused and worried, but you you push yourself back in his arms. like a stray kitten, who's not taking no for an answer now that it's finally being shown some love.

you’ve never been kissed so gently. never been touched so gently. you never thought about what it’d be like to kiss daryl until recently, but you didn’t know it’d feel so, so. soft? the opposite of home? warm and calm and safe. maybe it's what home should feel like. you lose yourself in him, even with the sound of your brother screaming at the television and hitting the wall in the other room.

you cry like an idiot in daryl’s arms, even as he kisses you. some first kiss between you two.

when you were a kid, you never cried. always prided yourself on being strong and tough - just like your best friend daryl. maybe you have changed more than you realized. you sniffle, and sit beside him at the end of your bed, but he still holds loosely onto your hand.

“you’re the only one who has ever held me without hurting me, daryl,” you admit. sheepishly, with heat in your cheeks, you sort of shrug. “you’re the best man i know.”

you don't know what this is between you two. what it could be, what it will be. what you want it to be. you just know that it feels like the strings of fate wove together to give you both someone to count on. someone who understands. unlike when you were a child, tonight, in daryl’s presence, you don’t hope or wish for anything.

you don’t care what that kiss meant. you just don’t want daryl to go.

daryl says nothing at first, just strokes a hand down the back of your head, a comforting gesture you’re not sure where he learned, considering the way he grew up.

if you weren't so upset, you'd realize that his mother used to comfort him like that. the few times she ever did.

“yeah,” he finally replies, swallowing hard, like the compliment isn’t one at all. maybe he just doesn’t like what it means for you. “that’s a shame.”

and that’s it. you’re inseparable again.

────

after that night spent together, you don’t kiss again. but you touch. something is different between you two. you’re more than just the former friends you used to be, but there’s a line you haven’t crossed.

it sort of feels like it’s always been, you know? you and daryl. daryl and you. you see each other almost every day, but it's hard since you both still live at home. you stopped sneaking him in your room when your father ran into daryl at a bar and slapped him on the shoulder. said, “so you’re the one screwin’ my daughter now, huh? enjoy it while it lasts, dixon. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

daryl had to punch a hole in the wall of the men’s bathroom to stop from punching your father in the face. he wants to hurt him, you know. your brother too. now that he’s big enough, no longer the little boy that used to help cover for whatever mistake would get you hit as a kid because he lacked physical strength, he wants to be the friend he’s always wished he could be.

but you tell him no. it’ll just complicate things. you still live at home, and he can’t be there every second to protect you. daryl seems pissed, but he understands. has the scars on his back to prove how just much he does.

but things are good. as good as they can get, anyway. you spend a lot of time together. find an empty field behind your homes and lay on the grass together, watching the stars. he never tries to kiss you again, but he lets you hold his hand or nuzzle against his arm. and that’s enough. it is.

shit’s getting crazy in town. a few hours away, in the big city, there’s word going on about people getting sick and dying. first it’s a fever, and then they’re up and walking and trying to bite others. you don’t understand, but daryl tells you not to worry. you want to trust him, and you do, for the most part -

but it's getting worse every day. people are dropping dead all around. which would be horrible in itself, except for the terrifying fact that they don’t stay dead. they get back up, and they - the walkers - try to attack and -

that’s what daryl says they’re called. you see your first one when daryl’s walking you back from your spot on the field. it looks like the man that owns the old convenience store, but he’s growling, and he’s trying to walk towards you, and his scalp is missing and you’re so scared you start crying.

daryl kills him with a big rock. you’re shaking, hysterical when you get home, and daryl walks you inside. “your dad home? brother?” he asks from the doorway, but you don’t see their truck or the television on, their staple. you shake your head, and he comes inside.

“shit’s going to hit the fan. you understand?” he asks, and you don’t. you’re scared. you’re confused. and you’re worried. but you nod anyway.

“you need to be ready for,” but the sound of a car driving into the garage and alerts you that’s someone’s home. daryl looks at you, then the door that leads into the house from the garage, before nodding. “i’m gunna go. gunna get some shit together and check on merle. i’ll be back in a few hours to check on you. pack a bag or sumthin’ just in case,” he says, and for the first time in all the times he’s walked you home lately, he looks shy as he leans in and kisses your cheek.

he’s out the door before your brother and father even drunkenly stumble in the house.

you obey what daryl says. you lock yourself in your room, and you’re not sure what daryl meant by be ready, but you grab a bag from your closet and fill it with clothes. just in case, right? who knew it’d take an apocalyptic situation to get you to finally leave this shitty town.

you’re worried, about daryl. you count the minutes until he comes back, because it's getting later and later and he’s not here yet. the sound of the clock, the tick tock tick tock makes you want to puke. you honestly consider trying to empty your stomach in the bathroom before your body makes you puke on its own when there’s a sound outside your door.

the door opens. it’s your brother.

“get your shit,” he orders, your door bouncing off your wall. there's a hole in the wall from the doorknob being constantly slammed against it. you catch a glimpse on the skinny part of the door that's normally hidden when it's closed - it still has the height markers you and daryl used to measure yourself with. he's everywhere, has always been, even when you don't notice.

your brother looks down at your bag already packed, purse on top of it. “shit, you already did. where you goin’?” you open your mouth to answer, but then your father is walking behind him, both of them peering at you with so much suspicion in their eyes you actually feel like you did something wrong.

“you planning’ on leavin us as soon as shit goes wrong? we’ve put a roof over your head for how many years? and now, what? you think dixon is gonna save you? that fuckin' re," he stops before he finishes that statement. even he knows better. besides, he'd never be mad at another man - only his daughter gets that special treatment.

"we’re all gonna die, girl. you first. can’t fight, can’t think, can’t do nuthin but pass yourself around town.” your father won’t stop, and you try not to cry, but you really just wish daryl would come back. your hands are shaking when they try to zip up your jacket, but it seems like that just pisses your brother off more. that you’re avoiding their angry outburst.

there’s nothing an angry man likes more than getting someone else angry. so he has an excuse to be the asshole he is at his core. you’re not going to give them the satisfaction.

in the distance, there’s a noise like an explosion. the sound of alarms going off from the neighboring city, the smell of smoke, so strong it actually masks the smell of cigarettes in your own home, which you didn’t think would be possible. tears start flowing from your eyes.

but it’s not because of the state of emergency in the city. on your brother and father’s face you see fear - something you’ve never seen before. and then it all happens so fast.

your brother reaches out and pushes you down. grabs you by the hair and hurts you, hurts you, hurts you. your father only interrupts to tell him it’s time to go, and they leave you, alone on the ground with new bruises and trauma to take with you wherever you go.

they used you, like always, to mask their own fears and pain. at this point, you really feel numb.

daryl comes back, a few hours later. you’ve been staring at the floor, scared to move. the town is literally a hellscape right now, the sound of people breaking windows, screaming, growling. you stay as quiet as possible on your bedroom floor, and you almost jump out of your skin when you realize it’s daryl coming through your window.

“you good?” he asks, a huge bag slung over his shoulder. he’s in a rush, you can tell, is looking around the room with a frequency you’ve never seen in him. he’s reading the situation, and he sees it written all over you.

but you see through him too. he’s scared, but he’s trying to be casual as to not scare you. you wonder where he learned to be gentleman - sure as hell wasn’t from any man in this town.

when you don’t answer, he tosses his bag down and pulls you up, grabs your little bag too and hands you your purse. there’s a little stuffed bunny keychain hung on it, and it looks so fucking stupid for the severity of the situation happening outside your window. you rip it off and daryl notices but doesn’t say anything.

“c’mon. we gotta go. i grabbed some supplies, i’ve got my bike. can’t stay here. it’s crazy outside,” and he goes on and on but you’re not really listening.

you interrupt, just as he helps you to the front door. “my brother and dad. they left,” you say, embarrassed to admit. yeah, you both know you’d be leaving with daryl - but the fact that they didn’t even care about what happens to you hurts more than you thought. maybe you convinced yourself, all these years, that they were so hard on you because they loved you. showed they cared in different ways - kind of like merle with daryl.

you were wrong. because your arm hurts, your hand is cramping, and you’re pretty sure you’re missing hair from the way your brother hurt you. it’d be tough to fight a walker at your full health, but right now, you’re completely useless.

thank god for daryl dixon.

daryl freezes, pauses. looks down before ushering you to his motorcycle. “yeah,” he says, nodding. he won’t look you in the eye. “i know.” another pause. “c’mon. we gotta go.”

he leads you to his motorcycle, and you hop on. it’s kind of impossible to get comfortable, because you’re holding two fucking bags and trying to hold on for your life, but you manage. daryl speeds off, and you wonder how a normal day could turn into such chaos. fire blazes through the trees and neighboring city. there’s these, these - things walking around, slowly, growling.

you hold onto daryl tighter. press your face in his back and breathe in the comforting smell of him. he smells like home - cigarettes, cheap detergent, woodsy.

you want to ask about merle. about your own brother and dad. how you can just leave them, how that’s fair, but you just can’t. you’re scared, but you still know the best place for you to be right now is with daryl.

you just know. and anyway, it’s not like anyone else gave a fuck about you to make sure you got anywhere safe.

that day daryl picked you up on his motorcycle in the rain - you imagined what it’d be like if he just kept going. if you didn’t stop on your street, if you didn’t have to go home. you pictured the two of you driving somewhere better, so long as it was out of this fucking town.

but you never imagined it’d be like this. with the walking dead running after you, cars stalled on their journey out of town because the walkers got to them before they could drive off. fire in the distance, the sound of some alarm going off so loudly you can hardly think. the dead litter the streets - walking, but also just laying there.

and then you see them. you're not even a few minutes away form your house. they’re laying on the ground, right next to a truck you’re sure you’ll see in your dreams for years to come. it belongs to your father.

“daryl,” you say, but he keeps driving. you’re certain the people on the ground are your father and your brother, a group of those things surrounding them, ready to dig in. “daryl,” you say again, “stop the bike.” but he doesn’t. you turn your head to look back, almost dropping your bag, but you catch a glimpse of the muscle in your brother’s arm being torn out. the muscle he always utilized to hurt you.

you sob into daryl’s back.

────

you keep driving until daryl’s bike needs gas. there’s a long road that leads to all the major highways, and it’s completely jam packed. you’ve been on the road for hours, so daryl parks the bike, tells you the run down of the plan that you’re not even listening to because you’re so scared and frozen. he's beyond frustrated with you, but he leads you to a spot in the woods to spend the night.

it’s risky, being anywhere right now. but daryl knows what he’s doing more than you do. you trust him, more than anyone else you’ve ever met. more than you even trust yourself.

“did you,” you start to ask, wanting to know if he was the one who saw your brother and father and put them on the ground. you couldn’t see the blood or how they died, but there was no gunshot wound. it was too clean, and you counted the arrows daryl has left in his crossbow. he's missing two.

“yeah,” he answers coldly, leaning against a tree with a sigh. he pulls out a bottle of water from his bag and hands it to you, and you take a greedy sip before realizing you better learn to ration. embarrassed, you hand the water back to daryl who raises his brows in amusement and puts the bottle back in his bag. you think that’s it. that he’s not going to talk about what happened, what he did, anymore.

but you’re wrong.

“been waiting for a chance to do that. ‘ve wanted to, for a long time. now that the world is shit, thought there’s no better chance, you know? no police, no laws,” he seems proud of himself, but even though you’re not close to your brother and dad, them being dead is still painful.

daryl’s not stupid. far from it. he reads your expression and then hands the water back to you. anything to stop the look you’re giving him. it looks like fear, you know -

but anyone looking a little deeper can see that it’s gratitude.

────

it’s been just the two of you for weeks.

you spend those weeks sharing a little tent, eating the animals daryl catches and cooks for you, wanting to cry at the sheer discomfort that not bathing has brought on. you're itchy, you're tired, you're hungry - but most of all, you're scared.

you don't know how daryl does it. wakes up every morning after a shitty night sleep to hunt for food to feed you both, to protect the both of you against walkers, since you still haven't got the hang of it.

the first few nights, things weren't so bad. the reality of the situation wasn't yet known. deep down, you thought something would be able to save you both from this mess. you were wrong.

but on those nights, you curled up against daryl in the tiny tent, and tried to take his mind off of the sound of distance cries and screams.

"we shared a tent before this, remember?" you asked. he just shook his head. it was actually the night you got fake married. both your brothers and fathers went to some poker game, and you both knew it'd be impossible to sleep at home. so you found a sleeping bag in your garage, and daryl found a tent in his, and the both of you camped out in the woods, too scared to go home.

"married people live together," you remember daryl saying while he zipped up the tent and you opened up a can of expired ravioli. you just shrugged, shared the food with him, and spent the night telling stories about what your future would be like.

you didn't imagine this, but it's like history is repeating itself again.

────

a few weeks later, you find a group to join.

it’s when you’re looking for a place to sleep after moving through the forest, dirty and hungry, that you come across a camp. you hear a child laugh, and then the sound of a woman's voice, and before you know it you're tugging daryl towards the sound while he drags his feet and curses.

he doesn’t want to see anyone else, let alone join anyone else. but you do. you don't know a lot about surviving, but you do know that pretty soon, you're both going to be walker food if you don't eat something proper. if you don't get a full night of rest. it's impossible, to live like this as two people.

it's been days since you even had more than a sip of water.

you both need help, you need -

“do you need a place to stay?” a man says, walking towards you and daryl while you try to reason with him. he scoffs, and you’re too tired to roll your eyes. you nod to the man, and then a woman appears. they must've heard you bickering while you walked towards the sound of their camp. they look friendly. they seem nice. and so you go with them, tugging daryl behind you.

it’s like asking for help makes him feel like a failure. but he goes because he knows you want to, and mutters something when you’re alone about looking for merle again when he gets his strength back. you tell him okay, good plan, knowing and hoping you never see merle dixon ever again. not that you’d ever tell daryl that.

daryl just feels like your other half these days. bonded now, not just from the childhood trauma you shared - but also this situation. you don't hold hands, you only touch to keep each other warm. you don't smile - and sometimes it feels like daryl regrets ever bringing you along with him. you're dead weight, and extra mouth to feed.

you don't know what he's thinking because he won't open up.

the first night at camp, you have dinner with the rest of the group. but you still haven’t had a chance to freshen up. there’s mud on your face and caked under your nails when someone asks daryl who you two are to each other, he pauses for so long that it's actually uncomfortable.

you’re more than friends, but you’re not exactly friendly. you're not close, beyond the memories that you share, that you're not even sure if daryl remembers.

you're stuffing your face with a can of chili, wondering why you're worried about a relationship status during the fucking apocalypse, and you're so in your own world that you don't see the way daryl is looking at you.

you take his word so literally - because you trust him so much. when he told you, ages ago, that he didn't get scared - you must've believed him.

because he's terrified. of losing you. of misreading what you want from him. of admitting, that every single memory with you is etched into the forefront of his brain. that he had to distance himself from you back then, because you deserve more than a hick like him, and watching you destroy yourself never came easy. that he wonders if you'll ever forgive him, for what he did to your dad and your brother.

there has never been a day that has gone by that he hasn't thought about you. and all day long since this shit started, he feels like he's failing you. can't feed you enough, can't find a good enough shelter.

and he looks at you, with mud and dirt on your face, messy hair. even at your worst, you're better than another woman's best, and he sees the greedy eyes of the men around the campfire, wondering if you're free. daryl doesn't know these men. he doesn't know if these people are safe, women and kids here be damned. that doesn't mean shit, not when people put themselves first to survive.

he thinks about the tent you shared a decade ago, after that fake wedding ceremony he went through with to make you happy. how it felt when your soft lips pressed against his before you left town. how you want him, how you never give up on trying to connect with him, even when he doesn't open up back to you. he likes that you're chatty. likes that you're trusting, and even dirty and starved you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

but when he sees the mud on your face, your hands, your clothes - and he sees the men looking at you, leering, he makes up his mind.

a lot has changed. but not how he feels about you. you're still his mud queen, the girl that loved him so much she said yes to marrying him, even without a ring.

“she’s my wife,” daryl says, and that's it. the rest of the men look away, because a man's claim is more important than a woman's own voice. and daryl knew that’d be the case. he knows men. he is one, even if he sometimes hates that he is - particularly when you flinch from a movement he makes, or go all quiet when he raises his voice. being apart of a gender that can do so much hurt has always made him feel like an outsider.

at his words, you don't even think about the way history is repeating once again. because your history, your past that you share with daryl - they've been the best parts of your life. and instead of trying to run from them, to avoid them because of what they mean - you should embrace them.

connection formed during the worst hours of your life is still connection. and you're done feeling ashamed.

daryl throws a look your way. one that feels like you're sharing your own secret world. like you did as kids.

but most importantly, you're riding on a high, because daryl dixon might be a man of few words. he might be more guarded than a maximum security prison, might be ashamed of his emotions and wants and everything else that makes him human. but -

he remembers.

the childhood you shared. the memories you made. history may be repeating - but that doesn’t mean you can’t make new memories together.

life is different now. tough. and it’s all about survival. but then again -

when has life ever been anything different for you and daryl?

so you put yourself out there again, this time without fear. you put the can of chili down and reach for his hand.

but daryl grabs yours first.

[heejamas]

➞ GIRLFRIEND SIMULATOR ♡ ; lee heeseung

♡ when heeseung agrees to test jungwon’s new dating sim game, girlfriend simulator, he expects a dumb, half finished game, until he boots it up on his switch, the screen glitches, and he’s dragged straight into the world he just created. the “girlfriend” character, you, isn’t scripted at all; and heeseung has to figure out how to get out while accidentally developing feelings for a girl who inconveniently does not exist in real life.

♡ pairing: heeseung × fem!reader | ♡ genre: fantasy; romcom; fluff; comedy; light sci fi; college au; game simulator; slow burn; smut (mdni) | ♡ playlist: gameboy - katseye | jellyous - illit | super shy - new jeans | i am shampoo - bibi | turn it up - pinkpantheress | sun and moon - aespa | ♡ wc: 37k

!! warnings: fantasy elements / game-world reality bendin, light sci fi, mild language, flirting, minor sensory distortion (lights flickering, glitch effects), slow burn dynamics, petnames, smut, piv, unprotected sex?? kinda, oral sex, cum eating, dom!heeseung, light spanking & choking, light anal play, fingering, finger sucking, hair pulling, rough sex, praise kink, breeding kink

♡ ronnie notes: hi guyssss!! hope you enjoy this fic 🫶 i wanted to make this as a little celebration for hitting 4k followers here hehe i’ve been writing this for a while and i lowkey think it’s about to become my little favorite / comfort fic around here!! i’ve always wanted to write something with a gaming theme because i am a gamer (derogatory) so huge thank you to my sister @iyoonjh and @hoonieyun and @jayflrt for helping me with everything league of legends related because yeah i was dumb enough to write league scenes without ever having played that shit myself lmaoo anyway i really hope you guys like girlfriend simulator

HEESEUNG'S FAVORITE PART OF ANY GAME WAS THE DIALOGUE OPTIONS. Little boxes that told you exactly what to say and exactly what would happen after. Real life should've come with that feature. would've saved him a lot of trouble. He wasn't completely hopeless, though. He had friends, he could hold a conversation if he had to. But there was always this gap between what he meant and what came out, or worse, between what he said and how people reacted to it. Like everyone else had gotten a patch update on social interaction and he was still running on the default version.

Maybe that's why dating never quite worked for him. Every time he tried, he felt like he’d missed a tutorial somewhere. He could talk, sure, and he could be funny when he wanted, but halfway through a conversation he always drifted, like thinking about assignments or projects or that interesting research thread he'd meant to look into. People would smile at him politely, the kind of smile that told him they’d already made up their mind: sweet guy, but not for me.

The last time he'd tried going on a date, he’d barely made it through an hour. He’d checked the timestamp afterwards and realized he’d spent exactly forty eight minutes pretending he wasn't thinking about a bug he’d found in his graphics project. He’d texted Jungwon: "bro i think i fumbled bad." Jungwon had sent back a voice note where he laughed so hard he hiccuped. Comforting, in its own way.

Jungwon was one of like three people Heeseung could be around without keeping a mental checklist of normal things to say. They’d been friends since first year when they got paired on a project and realized they both worked better at two in the morning with no one else around. Jungwon was quiet in the same way Heeseung was, but also completely unhinged when it came to code. He’d get an idea and just lock in for days. So one afternoon, while Heeseung was in the lab pretending to fix code he’d actually broken on purpose because he didn’t want to admit he didn’t understand it, Jungwon walked in with that mischief look. He sat down next to him, opened his laptop, and said, "ok, don’t make fun of me, but I made something."

Heeseung didn’t look up. "Is it stable this time?" which was generous, because Jungwon’s projects were never stable.

"Define stable," Jungwon said, clicking through a folder that had way too many warning icons. "Anyway, it’s a dating sim."

That finally made Heeseung look. "A dating sim? Why?"

"Research." Jungwon always said that when he’d clearly done something for fun and wanted it to sound academic. "It’s called Girlfriend Simulator."

Heeseung stared at him. "That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard."

Jungwon didn’t even blink. "Yeah, I know. But I need someone to test it, and you're the only person who’ll actually give me notes instead of lying to make me feel better."

Heeseung wanted to argue, but he was tired and they had a midterm coming up and honestly he didn't care enough to fight. So he sighed and pushed his chair closer. "Fine. Show me." Jungwon grinned like that was all he’d wanted since morning. He opened the build file, and the screen filled with placeholder art, branching choices, and a character slot labeled "y/n_default." And Heeseung, who was too distracted to think twice, just shrugged.

He had no idea that saying yes to that stupid looking game would end up being the most disastrous decision of his entire academic life.

He only agreed because Jungwon wouldn't shut up about it, and because even with all his complaints, he had this soft spot for him that made it hard to say no. Also, he didn’t have anything better to do on a friday night; the rest of their friends were out, and he wasn't in the mood to socialize. And, honestly, he liked games where he could pretend to be slightly less single than he actually was. It was pathetic, sure, but it wasn't like anyone needed to know.

So later that night, Heeseung sat on his bed with the lights off and his switch on max brightness, which was probably not great for his already questionable sleep schedule but whatever. Jungwon had sent him the build file with a message that just said "lmk if it crashes :)" which was not exactly confidence inspiring, but Heeseung had agreed to this so he couldn't really back out now.

The game booted with this weirdly soft 8 bit lullaby that sounded like it was trying to hypnotize him. The title screen was clean, minimalist, just the words "Girlfriend Simulator" in a font that looked expensive. Heeseung snorted. Jungwon had definitely spent more time on the typography than the actual game mechanics, which tracked. Character customization loaded next, and Heeseung had to admit it was smoother than he expected. The interface was intuitive, the options were detailed, and the hairstyle physics were suspiciously good for something Jungwon had supposedly coded in his free time between problem sets.

He made his character half heartedly. Messy hair because that's what he had in real life and he wasn't creative enough to imagine anything else. A hoodie because hoodies were safe. He picked "student" as his class, and when it came to stats, he maxed out "humor" because he genuinely thought he was funny, even if nobody else seemed to agree. Then he looked at "emotional intelligence" and left it at zero. Honesty was important, right?

The loading screen that followed was surprisingly elegant. Just a slow fade to black with some text that read "Your First Meeting" in delicate script. Heeseung settled back against his pillow, expecting the usual dating sim fare: a classroom, a coffee shop, maybe a cherry blossom tree if Jungwon was feeling cliché.

And then the screen flickered. Just once, quick enough that Heeseung thought maybe it was his eyes. But then it happened again and the lights in his bedroom pulsed in sync, like someone had wired his lamp to the game's framerate. "What the hell," Heeseung said to no one. 

The switch started vibrating in his hands. Not the normal rumble feature, but something harder, more insistent, like the controller was trying to shake itself apart. On screen, a figure materialized. The girlfriend character. For a second Heeseung just stared because the sprite work was genuinely impressive. The lighting was too good, the shadows moved wrong. Everything felt almost real in a way that made his skin prickle.

And then the girlfriend, you, turned around. Slowly like you already knew he was watching. Your face came into view and Heeseung's brain did this weird stutter because you didn't look like a game character, you looked like a person, with the kind of detail you didn't get from placeholder art. Heeseung felt this uncomfortable twist in his stomach like he was the one being observed.

Then you spoke. Not with a text box, not with that awkward text to speech voice that indie games always used. Actual audio, clear and warm and way too close for his own good. "You're here!"

Heeseung's hands went cold. The voice didn't sound small or synthetic or compressed. It sounded like someone was standing directly behind him in his dark bedroom, breath on his neck, words in his ear. He whipped around so fast he nearly dropped the switch, but his room was empty. Just his desk and his dying succulent and his pile of laundry that he'd been meaning to deal with for a week. "What the—"

Before he could finish the thought, before he could even process what was happening, the lights in his room popped, like every bulb had blown at once. The screen went pure white, so bright it hurt to look at, and the controller in his hands went from cold to burning hot in the span of a heartbeat. He tried to drop it but his fingers wouldn't move, locked in place like the plastic had fused to his skin. The air pressure in the room shifted. His ears popped like he was in a plane taking off, and he felt this pull, this hook behind his ribs, yanking him forward with a force that didn't make any physical sense. He tried to pull back, tried to let go, tried to do anything, but the world was already dissolving.

The last thing Heeseung managed to think before everything shattered into pixels was that he was going to kill Yang Jungwon.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that the world was too bright. The grass beneath him looked like high definition fairy dust, each blade catching light in a way that grass absolutely should not. The sky was blue in that aggressive unnatural way that only existed in concept art. Everything was sharp and vivid and wrong. Heeseung sat up slowly, head spinning, and looked down at himself. His clothes had changed. Instead of his worn out hoodie and sweatpants, he was wearing the outfit his avatar had been wearing. The same hoodie he'd picked in character customization but real now, solid and heavy on his shoulders. His hands looked like his hands but also didn't. The proportions were slightly off, the lines a little too clean.

"What the fuck," he said out loud, and his voice sounded normal, which was worse. Everything else was strange but his voice was still his.

"You made it!"

Heeseung's head snapped up. You were someone standing a few feet away, watching him with this expression that was hard to read. Amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Like you'd been waiting for him and was pleased he'd finally shown up. except you weren't a sprite anymore. You were real, or at least as real as anything else in this place. You looked exactly like the character on screen but with dimension now, depth, the subtle movements of someone actually breathing. Your hair moved slightly in a breeze he couldn't feel. You were wearing something casual but put together in that effortless way that Heeseung had never managed to pull off.

You smiled at him, and he felt something weird in his stomach. "Hi," you said, like this was completely normal, like he hadn't just been ripped through a screen into a video game that shouldn't exist. "Nice to meet you!"

Heeseung opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His brain was doing this thing where it tried to process too many things at once and ended up processing nothing at all. "What," he finally managed, which wasn't even a complete sentence but it was all he had.

"Sorry I'm late," you said, but you didn't sound particularly sorry. "Jungwon said you might be running behind. He's the one who set this up, by the way. Said we'd get along."

Heeseung blinked. "Jungwon... set this up?"

"Yeah, the blind date?" You looked at him like he was being slow on purpose. "He said you needed to get out more. His words, not mine."

And that was such a Jungwon thing to do that Heeseung almost believed it. Almost. Except he was still processing the fact that the world around him looked like someone had turned reality into a video game filter. "This is insane," he muttered under his breath. "This is the most realistic game I've ever—"

"Game?" You interrupted, and your smile faltered just slightly. "I'm not playing games with you."

The way you said it made Heeseung freeze. It wasn't defensive or annoyed, it was sincere like you genuinely meant it, like you had no idea what he was talking about. And that's when it hit him: You could hear him. Not just the dialogue options he was supposed to pick. Everything. his actual thoughts spoken out loud. "Wait," he said slowly, "you heard that?"

"Heard what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Heeseung cleared his throat and tried to pull himself together. He could freak out later. Right now there was a person in front of him — a very real feeling and cute person — and he was being weird. "So. Blind date. Right. Jungwon's idea."

He really looked at you then. You were pretty, in this approachable, comfortable way that made him think maybe he could actually talk to you without saying something catastrophically stupid. You had this ease about you, like you weren't trying too hard, and your eyes had this spark that suggested you were probably smarter than you let on.  Basically, you were everything he'd ever put on one of those hypothetical "ideal type" list.

"So," you said, cutting through his thoughts. "Jungwon mentioned you're into games?"

Heeseung tried not to laugh at the irony. "Uh, yeah. You could say that."

"Me too." You brightened, and it was genuine, not that polite interest people usually faked. "I've been replaying persona 5 royal for like the third time. I know, I know, it's excessive."

"No, that's— that's actually really cool," Heeseung said, and he meant it. "Most people don't get the appeal of replaying stuff."

"Right?" You gestured as you talked, animated in a way that made him want to keep listening. "Everyone's like 'you already know the story' but that's not the point. It's about the experience, the details you missed, trying different builds—"

A notification sound chimed softly in the air between you. Heeseung jumped. You didn't react. In the corner of his vision, barely perceptible, text appeared: romantic interest +5. common interests discovered.

Oh. Oh no. This was a dating sim. An actual, literal dating sim. And he was living it.

"You okay?" You asked, tilting your head slightly.

"Yeah, totally fine," Heeseung lied. "Just thought I heard something."

You nodded, accepting this easily, and then said, "Do you want to walk? There's this spot by the lake that's really nice."

"Sure," Heeseung said, because what else was he going to say?

You started down a path that looked hand painted, every stone deliberately placed, every flower color coordinated. You reached the lake, which was absurdly picturesque, and sat down on a bench that looked like it had been placed there specifically for this moment. Probably because it had. Heeseung sat next to you, not too close but not weirdly far either, and tried to act like this was normal. "Oh," you said suddenly, looking up. "Look at that." Heeseung followed your gaze. There was a flower growing on a low hanging branch, except it wasn't growing so much as hovering there, pulsing slightly with a soft golden glow. It bobbed up and down in a loop, the universal sign of an interactive object. You didn't seem to notice anything weird about it. "That's pretty," you said. "I've never seen a flower like that before."

Heeseung stared at it. The glow intensified slightly, like it was trying to get his attention, like it was waiting for him to do something. Oh god. This is a prompt. He was supposed to pick the flower and give it to you, that's how this worked. That's how you earned affection points or route progression or whateverJungwon had programmed into this thing. So he stood up. "I'll get it for you."

"You don't have to—"

"No, I want to," Heeseung said, and he meant it, which was somehow worse. He reached up and plucked the flower from the branch. It came away easily, and the moment his fingers closed around the stem, the glow faded into something softer, more natural. It looked real now. I mean, it felt real. He turned back to you and held it out, suddenly aware of how much this looked like a scene from every romance movie he'd ever suffered through, not that he suffered through many. "Here," he said.

You took it, and your fingers brushed his for just a second. You looked down at the flower, then back up at him, and your smile was so genuinely happy that Heeseung forgot for a moment that this was supposed to be a game. "Thank you," you said. "That's really sweet."

romantic interest +15. key item obtained: first flower. achievement unlocked: classic romantic gesture.

The notifications stacked in his peripheral vision, and Heeseung felt something between triumph and existential dread. "It's just a flower," he said.

"Maybe," you said, twirling it between your fingers. "But it's the thought that counts, right?" And the worst part was that you seemed to actually believe that. You weren't reading from a script or following programmed responses. You felt real, real enough that Heeseung was starting to forget why that should scare him.

You tucked the flower behind your ear, adjusting it carefully, and Heeseung had to physically stop himself from saying something embarrassing about how that was probably the prettiest thing he'd seen all week. He sat back down on the bench, leaving what he hoped was an appropriate amount of space between you. "So," you said, tilting your head. "What do you do for fun? Besides picking flowers for girls in parks."

Heeseung felt his face get warm. "I don't— that's not a thing I do regularly."

"Shame. You're good at it." You were grinning now, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. "Come on, tell me. What's your thing?"

"Uh. Games, mostly. I play a lot of games, like Jungwon said."

Your eyes lit up immediately. "Oh yeah! What kind?"

"Mostly League. Some RPGs. Anything competitive, I guess." He expected the usual response, the polite nod and change of subject that he got whenever he mentioned gaming to people.

Instead, you leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Wait, you play League? What's your main?"

Heeseung blinked. "You play League?"

"Obviously. Answer the question."

"I mean, I play mid usually. Zed, Leblanc, that kind of thing." He was still processing the fact that you not only knew what League was but apparently played it. "What about you?"

"Support. I'm a Janna main and i'm not ashamed of it." You said it with this defiant pride that made Heeseung want to laugh. "I know, I know, support is boring or whatever, but someone has to keep the ADC alive and it might as well be me."

romantic interest +10. shared interests discovered: league of legends.

Heeseung felt something shift in his chest. He'd never met someone who got it like this. Who understood that games weren't just mindless button mashing but actual strategy and skill. "What rank are you?" He asked.

"Plat 2. I was almost diamond last season but then I had finals and kind of gave up on the grind." You made a face. "What about you?"

"Diamond 3." Heeseung said, oddly proud of himself but pretending he wasn't.

"Oh, so you're actually good." You looked impressed, which made Heeseung feel ridiculously more pleased with himself. "We should play together sometime."

"Yeah, definitely," Heeseung said, and then remembered that this was a game and there probably wasn't a 'sometime' outside of this moment. The thought made something in his stomach twist uncomfortably. You shifted on the bench, getting more comfortable, and somehow ended up closer to him. And just like that, you were off. Heeseung found himself talking more than he had in weeks, and you had opinions, strong ones, and you weren't afraid to argue with him when you disagreed. But it wasn't hostile or competitive, it was fun. At some point, you started talking about other games too. You mentioned playing Stardew Valley when you wanted something relaxing, getting unreasonably invested in Hollow Knight, rage quitting dark souls three times before finally beating it. "I'm not good at souls games," you admitted. "I panic dodge. I know you're supposed to learn the patterns but my brain just goes 'roll roll roll' and then I die."

Heeseung laughed. "That's valid. I did the same thing my first playthrough."

"Really? You seem like you'd be one of those people who does no hit runs for fun."

"Absolutely not. I died to the tutorial boss in Elden Ring."

You gasped, mockingly scandalized. "No you didn't."

"I really did. it Took me like fifteen tries." You were laughing now, the kind of laugh that made your whole face light up, and Heeseung felt ridiculously proud that he'd caused it. There was something about making you laugh that felt like winning.

romantic interest +8. humor appreciated.

You kept talking, jumping from topic to topic with the kind of ease that Heeseung had only ever experienced with Jungwon or Jake at best. Except this was different because you were looking at him like everything he said was interesting, like you actually wanted to hear his thoughts on whether the Death Note ending was satisfying or if Eren from Attack on Titan was justified. The sun was properly setting now, painting everything in warm colors. there were fireflies starting to appear, floating lazily through the air in a way that was definitely too perfect to be natural. Heeseung watched one drift past your face, and you reached out to let it land on your finger. "Pretty," you said softly, watching it glow.

Heeseung was looking at you, at the flower still tucked behind your ear and the way the sunset caught in your hair and the small smile on your face as you watched the firefly. "Yeah," he said. "Really pretty." You glanced at him and caught him staring. For a second, Heeseung thought he'd made it weird, but then you smiled, almost shy, and looked back at the firefly.

romantic interest +15. moment shared.

The firefly flew off, and you watched it go before turning back to him. "Hey, can I tell you something?" He nodded so you kept going. "I wasn't really sure about coming today. I almost canceled, actually." You pulled at a thread on your sleeve, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm not great at the whole meeting new people thing. I always feel like I'm going to say something weird and scare them off."

"You're not weird," Heeseung said automatically.

"You literally just met me. I could be extremely weird."

"Okay, but like, good weird. The kind of weird that's actually interesting." Heeseung ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain it. "Most people just want to talk about surface level stuff, you know? But you actually have things you care about."

You looked at him for a long moment, and Heeseung couldn't read your expression. Then you smiled, soft and genuine. "You're really nice, you know that?"

"I'm really not," Heeseung said, but he was smiling too.

"Yes you are. You're nice and you're a good listener and you have good taste in games." You counted off on your fingers. "That's like, three whole good qualities. Most people don't even have one."

romantic interest +12. compliments appreciated. emotional vulnerability reciprocated.

There was a moment of comfortable silence where you just sat there, watching the fireflies multiply in the growing dusk. Heeseung thought about how easy this felt, how he wasn't checking the time or looking for excuses to leave. How he kind of never wanted this to end.

You turned your head to look at him. "So do you want to do this again? Like, another time?"

Heeseung's heart did a weird jump in his chest. "Like another date?"

"Yeah. If you want. No pressure or anything." You said it casually, but Heeseung could see the hint of nervousness in the way you weren't quite meeting his eyes. "I just think it'd be fun to hang out more. Maybe we could actually play League together or something."

Every logical part of Heeseung's brain was screaming that this was a bad idea. That he should figure out how to exit this game and go back to real life and deal with the fact that he'd just spent hours in a virtual reality dating sim. But the less logical part, the part that was currently winning, wanted to see you again. Wanted to hear you laugh more. Wanted to keep talking about stupid stuff that mattered to him and apparently mattered to you too. "Yeah," he heard himself say. "Definitely, yeah, I'd really like that."

Your smile was so bright it could've competed with the fireflies. "Okay. It's a date then."

romantic interest +20. second date confirmed. route progression: 15% complete.

And then, without any warning at all, the world started to blur at the edges. The colors bled together, the sounds got muffled and distant, and Heeseung felt that same pulling sensation from before. Like someone had hooked a line to his chest and was reeling him back. "Wait— " he started to say, reaching out instinctively. You were looking at him with concern, mouth moving, but he couldn't hear what you were saying anymore. Everything was dissolving into static and white light and that horrible feeling of falling. The last thing he saw before everything went black was your face, still worried, still perfect, with that flower tucked behind your ear. Then he was gasping awake in his dark bedroom, switch controller still hot in his hands, his heart racing. The screen showed a save menu: progress saved. continue tomorrow?

His hands were shaking. "What the hell," Heeseung said to his empty room.

And he barely slept that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the park, the fireflies, your smile. he kept reaching for memories that felt too solid to be from a game. By the time his alarm went off, he'd already been awake for an hour, staring at his ceiling and trying to convince himself that he hadn't just experienced the most elaborate hallucination of his life.

He found Jungwon in their usual spot in the computer lab, hunched over his laptop with his headphones on, nodding along to whatever he was listening to. There were three empty energy drink cans next to him, which meant he'd probably been there since before sunrise. Heeseung dropped his bag on the desk with more force than necessary. Jungwon jumped, pulling his headphones down. "Jesus, dude. Learn to announce yourself like a normal person."

"We need to talk about your game," Heeseung said.

Jungwon's face lit up. "Oh my god, you played it! what'd you think? Was she cute? Did you get to the part with the—"

"Jungwon." Heeseung sat down, leaning forward. "What the hell did you put in that thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it was way too real." Heeseung ran his hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain something that sounded insane even in his own head. "It felt like I was actually inside the game."

Jungwon frowned. "Wait, you used a VR headset or something?"

"No, I just played it normally! On my switch, in my room." Heeseung could hear how crazy he sounded but he kept going anyway. "But it wasn't like regular gameplay. It was like the game pulled me in. I could smell things, Jungwon."

Jungwon stared at him for a long moment, then slowly took a sip of his energy drink. "Bro. You got that invested in it?"

"I'm not— that's not what I'm saying."

"You literally just described sensory immersion that doesn't exist yet." Jungwon was grinning now. "Holy shit, you're actually down bad. You played a dating sim for like two hours and now you're having full vivid memories about it."

"It wasn't like that," Heeseung insisted, but even he could hear how weak it sounded.

"Dude, you need to get an actual girlfriend. Like, a real one. Made of flesh and blood and everything." Jungwon was trying not to laugh and failing. "Look, I'm glad you liked it. Genuinely. But maybe we should set you up with someone real before you completely lose touch with reality." Heeseung slumped back in his chair. Maybe Jungwon was right. Maybe he had just gotten way too into it. Maybe his brain had filled in details that weren't actually there because he was that desperate for connection. "I'm not judging! Okay, maybe I'm judging a little bit, but I'm also proud. My game is so good it's causing psychological breaks from reality." Jungwon looked genuinely pleased with himself. "Okay, but if you're playing tonight, there's something you should know."

"What?"

"The second date has a mini game. Like, a fight sequence."

Heeseung blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A fighting mini game."

"Why the fuck does a dating simulator have a fighting mini game?"

Jungwon shrugged. "I thought it'd be fun. Adds variety and keeps things interesting."

"That makes absolutely no sense. What am I supposed to be fighting?"

"You'll see," Jungwon said, and his smile was deeply suspicious.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting. I'm not spoiling my own game." Jungwon turned back to his laptop. "Just make sure you've been keeping up with your stats. You're gonna need decent strength and agility."

"I maxed out humor and left emotional intelligence at zero."

Jungwon turned around slowly. "You what."

"What! I was being honest about my abilities!"

"Heeseung. My guy. My dude." Jungwon looked pained. "You're supposed to actually try to build a good character."

"My character is fine."

"Your character is going to get his ass kicked." Jungwon pulled up something on his laptop, clicked around for a second, then shook his head. "Okay, you know what? It's fine. You'll figure it out. The game has adaptive difficulty anyway."

Heeseung really looked at Jungwon. "Adaptive difficulty in a dating sim."

"In the fighting portion, yeah. The dating part is all you, buddy. That's pure skill based."

Heeseung wanted to argue that there was something deeply wrong with Jungwon's game design philosophy, but he also kind of wanted to know what the hell happened on the second date that required combat stats. "Is she going to be there?" He asked. "During the fight thing?"

"Obviously. It's her date." Jungwon was smirking now. "Why, you worried about impressing her?"

"No."

"You're totally worried about impressing her. A girl who doesn't exist."

Heeseung threw a pen at him. Jungwon dodged it without even looking up from his screen. And the rest of the day dragged. Heeseung went to his classes and took notes and nodded at the appropriate times, but his brain was somewhere else entirely. He kept thinking about the park. About the way you'd looked at him when he gave you the flower. About how easy it had been to talk to you. He knew it was just a game. He knew you were just code, just a really well designed character or whatever that Jungwon had somehow made feel real. But knowing that didn't stop him from wanting to see you again.

By the time he got back to his dorm that night, he'd already decided he was playing regardless of how pathetic it made him look. He grabbed his switch, plugged in his headphones even though he hadn't used them last time, and loaded up the save file. The screen flickered once. Twice. Here we go again, Heeseung thought. And then the world tilted, and he was falling forward into light. When the world stopped spinning and Heeseung's vision cleared, he wasn't in a park this time. He was sitting in a desk chair, his own desk chair. In what looked exactly like his dorm room, except cleaner, way cleaner. His laundry wasn't on the floor and his desk wasn't covered in empty energy drink cans. His monitor was on, displaying his league of legends home screen, and his keyboard had that soft RGB glow that looked way more expensive than his actual setup.

"Okay," Heeseung said to the empty room. "This is new." His phone — or the game's version of his phone — buzzed on the desk. He picked it up and saw a discord notification.

you: you're online! finally you: i've been waiting like ten minutes you: i was starting to think you ghosted me

Heeseung's heart did that stupid jump thing again. He typed back quickly.

heeseung: sorry, just got on heeseung: ready when you are

His discord pinged with an incoming call. He stared at it for a second, then clicked accept. "There you are," your voice came through his headphones, clear and warm and doing absolutely nothing good for his heart rate. "I thought you bailed on me."

"I wouldn't do that," Heeseung said, and he meant it, which was concerning considering you were a video game character.

"Good. Because I already said we were playing together and if you didn't show up i would've looked stupid." Heeseung could hear the smile in your voice. on his second monitor — since when did he have a second monitor? — a small window popped up showing your avatar. It was cute, some anime style drawing with the same flower from yesterday tucked behind the character's ear. "Okay, so I set up a custom game. Two versus two," you said.

"Sounds good. Who are we playing against?"

There was a pause. "Okay, so don't freak out, but it's my exes."

Heeseung's hand froze on his mouse. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My ex boyfriends. Both of them. They wanted a rematch from last time." You said it so casually, like this was a completely normal thing. "They're kind of toxic about League. They got really mad when I beat them."

"You want me to play League against your ex boyfriends?"

"Technically we're playing against them together as a team. Bonding activity!" You sounded way too cheerful about this. "Come on, It'll be fun. Plus i really want to beat them again. They've been talking shit in the group chat all week."

quest unlocked: defend your girlfriend's honor (in league of legends) | objective: win the 2v2 match | optional objective: make her exes regret queueing up

The notification appeared in the corner of his vision and Heeseung had to resist the urge to laugh. This was insane. This entire situation was insane. But he went for it anyway. "Okay," he said. "Let's do it." the invite popped up and Heeseung accepted. The lobby loaded and he could see the other two players: "toxicking" and "yourworstnightmare" which were possibly the most obnoxious usernames he'd ever seen. "Those are real people you dated?" Heeseung asked.

"Unfortunately. My taste in men used to be really bad." You paused. "It's gotten better though." Heeseung tried not to smile and failed completely.

The chat lobby loaded and immediately one of them started typing.

toxicking: oh look who showed up toxicking: brought a new victim i see yourworstnightmare: this gonna be quick lol

"They're always like this," you said, sounding tired. "Just mute them if they get annoying."

"I'm fine," Heeseung said. "I've dealt with worse in solo queue."

"Ooh, confident. I like it."

romantic interest +5. confidence appreciated.

You locked in Janna, just like you'd said yesterday. Heeseung hovered over Zed for a second, then switched to Leblanc. If this was going to be a two versus two, he wanted mobility and burst damage. The game loaded, Heeseung cracked his knuckles and adjusted his grip on his mouse. "Okay, game plan," you said. "I keep you alive, you delete them. Simple." The match started and immediately the other team was in all chat. Heeseung checked their champions. Yasuo and Yone. Of course they were playing the flashy high skill ceiling champions. He would've bet money they had mastery 7 emotes ready to spam. "They always play like this," you said. "Super aggressive, trying to outplay everything. It's kind of predictable once you get used to it." The minions spawned and both teams moved forward. Heeseung played it safe at first, watching how the exes moved, learning their patterns. And then suddenly, first blood!

"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT," you shouted, and Heeseung couldn't help but grin.

toxicking: wtf toxicking: that was lag yourworstnightmare: ur getting carried yourworstnightmare: ur duo is doing everything

"He's salty," you said, laughing. "This is great." The match continued and it became increasingly clear that Heeseung and you had better coordination. You'd shield him right before he went in. You moved together like you'd been playing as a duo for months. "Behind you," you called out, and Heeseung instantly dodged. It wasn't even close. By fifteen minutes, the score was 15 to 3, and Heeseung had more kills than both of the exes combined.

toxicking: this is bullshit toxicking: whoever this guy is he's probably smurfing yourworstnightmare: yeah no way he's actually this rank toxicking: fucking carried loser

"They're so mad," you said, and you sounded absolutely delighted. "Oh my god, they're so mad. This is the best day of my life."

Heeseung was grinning so hard his face hurt. "Should we end it?"

"Absolutely, yeah. Let's make it hurt." You pushed mid together. Heeseung went in first, deleting the Yasuo instantly. You polymorphed the Yone, and Heeseung finished him off before the polymorph even ended. The nexus exploded.

victory! +50 romantic interest. victory achieved. quest completed. achievement unlocked: better than her exes (at league of legends)

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, feeling more satisfied than he had any right to feel about a video game within a video game. "That felt good."

"Right? God, I've been wanting to do that for weeks." You sighed happily. "You're really good, by the way. You weren't kidding about being diamond."

"I don't really joke about my rank."

"Noted. Confidence is earned." There was a pause. "Hey, want to play another one? Just us this time?"

Heeseung absolutely should not spend more time in this game. He should log off and go to sleep and maybe talk to a therapist about why he was emotionally investing in a dating simulator. "Yeah," he said instead. "Let's play another."

You made a happy sound that did dangerous things to his chest. "Okay! I'll make the lobby.” Your laugh was bright and genuine and perfect. "I knew you were my type."

romantic interest +15. competitive spirit matched.

You played two more games and won both of them. When you finally left the lobby, Heeseung realized he'd been playing for almost two hours. His hands were sore from gripping the mouse and his face hurt from smiling. "Hey," you said, your voice softer now. "Thanks for playing with me. And for, you know, obliterating my exes. That was really fun."

"Anytime," Heeseung said, and meant it. "This was really fun. I don't usually have this much fun playing league."

"Me neither," you admitted. "Usually it's just people being toxic or trying too hard. But this was nice. You're nice." There was a comfortable silence, just the sound of both of you breathing through the discord call. Heeseung looked at his monitor, at the League client, at the clean version of his room that didn't exist in real life. "So," you said eventually. "Same time next week?"

Heeseung's chest tightened. "Yeah. Definitely."

"Cool. It's a date." You paused. "Well, another date. Our third date. Okay. Well. I should probably get going. Okay. Goodnight, Heeseung."

"Goodnight." The discord call ended and Heeseung sat there in the quiet of his too clean room, staring at his monitor. The screen started to blur at the edges, colors bleeding together again. Here we go again, he thought, again.

progress saved. route progression: 30% complete.

And this whole thing it became a routine faster than Heeseung wanted to admit. He'd go to class, take notes he barely remembered, nod at Jungwon when they crossed paths in the lab, and then he'd go straight back to his dorm. Dinner was whatever he could eat with one hand because he was already booting up the switch with the other. Jake, his roommate, asked him once if he was okay, and Heeseung said he was fine, just really into this new game. Which was technically true, even if it didn't come close to explaining what was actually happening.

The third date was at an arcade. Not a real arcade, obviously, but the game's version of one. You showed up wearing this oversized hoodie and jeans and you looked so genuinely excited to be there that Heeseung forgot for a solid minute that none of this was real. The mission was simple: win you a prize from the claw machine. Except the claw machine was rigged in that way that all claw machines are rigged, and it took Heeseung fifteen tries before he finally got the stuffed cat you'd been eyeing. When he handed it to you, you hugged it to your chest and smiled at him like he'd just won you something actually valuable, and the notification that popped up said his charm stat had increased by ten points. He was starting to understand how the game worked now; every interaction mattered and every choice added up.

On the fourth date, you took him to a bookstore, and the mission was to pick out a book for each other. You spent almost an hour wandering through the aisles, pulling out books and reading the backs and showing him things you thought he'd like. You picked him this SciFi novel about time loops and said it reminded you of him because he seemed like someone who'd want to figure out how to break the system. He didn't know how to tell you that he was currently living in something that felt suspiciously like a time loop, so he just took the book and thanked you. He picked you a fantasy novel with a really detailed magic system. When you read the description your whole face lit up and you immediately added it to your reading list. His intelligence stat increased and so did the romantic interest meter, which was now sitting at somewhere close to seventy percent.

Date five was a cooking challenge in your apartment, which Heeseung didn't even know you had until he loaded into the game and found himself standing in a kitchen that looked like it came out of an interior design magazine. You were already there, tying your hair back, explaining that you'd challenged him to see who could make the better pasta. Heeseung had never cooked pasta in his life that didn't come from a box with instructions, but he wasn't about to admit that. The mission objective said to impress you with his cooking skills, which seemed optimistic given his actual skill level, but he tried anyway. He burned the garlic immediately. You laughed at him but not in a mean way, more like you thought it was endearing that he was trying. You ended up helping him, standing close enough that he could smell your perfume, guiding his hands when he didn't know how much salt to add. Your pasta turned out better than his but you ate his anyway and said it wasn't that bad, and his cooking stat went from zero to fifteen which felt generous but he wasn't complaining.

By date seven Heeseung's character stats had changed completely. His confidence was maxed out now, sitting at ninety five out of a hundred. his charm was at eighty. Even his emotional intelligence had somehow climbed to sixty despite him never actively trying to level it up. The game was keeping track of everything, he realized. Every time he listened to you talk about something you cared about, every time he remembered a small detail you'd mentioned, every time he made you laugh, the numbers went up. He was being rewarded for paying attention, for caring.

Date seven was a hiking trail that wound up a mountain to a viewpoint. The mission was just to reach the top together, which sounded simple except the trail was longer than expected. Heeseung offered to take a break but you said you wanted to keep going, you wanted to see the view. So you kept climbing and Heeseung found himself naturally slowing his pace to match yours, offering his hand on the steeper parts, pointing out interesting rocks or plants just to give you reasons to stop and catch his breath, because the game kept showing pop ups of him showing that his hydration meter was almost on 10%. When you finally reached the top the sun was setting and the view was objectively incredible, the kind of thing that didn't exist in real life because real life didn't have rendering engines that could make every cloud perfect. You sat down on the bench at the summit and Heeseung sat next to you and you leaned your head on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"This is nice," you said quietly. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Heeseung said, and he meant it so completely it scared him.

"You know, when we first met, I wasn't sure if this would work out. I didn't like the idea of a blind date." You were looking out at the view, not at him. "But I think I was wrong. I think we make sense together."

The romantic interest meter hit ninety percent and a new notification appeared: relationship milestone approaching. prepare for confession sequence. Heeseung's stomach dropped. Confession sequence. That meant the game was building toward something, toward an ending. toward him having to either commit or walk away. He'd known this was coming, obviously, this was a dating sim, the whole point was to get to the confession. But now that it was actually happening he wasn't ready. He didn't want this to end. He wanted to keep going on dates and learning things about you and making you laugh and existing in this space where things made sense.

"Hey," you said, turning to look at him. "You okay? You got quiet."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Heeseung lied. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

About how you're not real, he didn't say. About how I'm going to have to leave eventually and you'll just be code again. About how I'm way too invested in something that was only supposed to be a game. "About how nice this is," he said instead.

You smiled and took his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "Yeah. It really is." You sat there until the sun finished setting and the stars came out, which happened too fast because game time didn't move like real time. When the world started to blur at the edges and Heeseung felt that familiar pulling sensation, you squeezed his hand once before letting go. "See you next time," you said, and your voice was already fading.

Heeseung woke up at his desk again, neck sore, hands cramped around the controller. His phone showed it was three in the morning. He had class in five hours. He should sleep. He should eat something. He should probably shower because he wasn't sure he'd done that today. Instead he looked at the switch screen. progress saved. route progression: 90% complete. next date: confession sequence available.

The next day, Heeseung found Jungwon in the same spot as always, corner desk in the computer lab with three monitors running different programs simultaneously. Heeseung dropped into the chair next to him hard enough that Jungwon jumped. "What happens after the confession?" Heeseung asked without preamble.

Jungwon blinked at him. "What?"

"In your game. What happens after the confession scene. I need to know."

"Oh, you're at that part already?" Jungwon's eyebrows went up. "Uh, I don't know if i should tell you though. Spoilers and all that."

"Jungwon."

"I'm serious! The whole point of a game is discovering it yourself. If I tell you what happens it ruins the experience." Jungwon was grinning now, clearly enjoying this. "You're supposed to go in blind and make your choices based on what feels right in the moment."

Heeseung resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "I just want to know what to expect. Is there a good ending? A bad ending? Multiple endings?"

"There are multiple endings, yeah. Depends on your choices throughout the game and your final stats." Jungwon tilted his head, studying him. "Why are you so stressed about this? It's just a game. If you get a bad ending you can just reload and try again."

"I don't want to reload," Heeseung said, and he could hear how intense he sounded but couldn't seem to stop. "I want to get it right the first time."

Jungwon stared at him for a long moment, then slowly set down his drink. "Okay, you need to be honest with me right now. How much have you been playing this game?"

"I don't know. A few hours a day."

"Heeseung."

"Okay, maybe more than a few hours."

"How many hours are we talking? Ballpark estimate."

Heeseung did the mental math and immediately regretted it. "I don't think that's relevant."

"Oh my god, you're obsessed." Jungwon leaned back in his chair, looking somewhere between amused and concerned. "Dude, it's a dating sim. A fictional dating sim. With a fictional girl who doesn't exist. You know that, right? You know she's not real?"

"Obviously I know that," Heeseung said defensively, even though there were moments when he forgot, when you felt so real that it didn't matter what you were made of.

"Do you though? Because you look like you haven't slept in three days." Jungwon was trying to be lighthearted about it but there was genuine worry underneath. "I made the game to be immersive but this is kind of next level." Jungwon paused. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask. Do you have the save file on your switch?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Can I see it? I want to check something." Jungwon was already pulling out a cable from his bag. "I've been trying to track some of the game metrics and I want to see how your playthrough data looks. Might help me optimize things for the final build." Heeseung hesitated for a second, then pulled out his switch and handed it over. Jungwon connected it to his laptop and started pulling up files, his eyes scanning lines of code that moved too fast for Heeseung to follow. "Okay so your save file shows you're at ninety percent completion, which tracks," Jungwon muttered, clicking through folders. "Romance points are maxed, most of your stats are really high except wisdom which is still somehow at like twenty, but that's on you for ignoring all the library study sessions —" He stopped mid-sentence. "Wait."

"What?"

"Hang on." Jungwon leaned closer to his screen, scrolling through something. his expression shifted from curious to confused to something that looked almost worried. "This doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense?"

"These files. There are scripts here that I didn't write." Jungwon opened another window, comparing code side by side. "Like, entire dialogue trees that don't exist in my original build. And these asset files, I definitely didn't create these. The arcade date was supposed to be at a generic arcade but your file shows custom assets for specific machines."

Heeseung felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Maybe you forgot you added them?"

"I don't forget code I write, Heeseung. That's not how this works." Jungwon was scrolling faster now, opening more files. "And look at this, the dating locations are generating based on your preferences. I programmed like five set locations but your save file has seven different ones and they're all places that align with interests you've demonstrated in gameplay." He clicked on something else. "Oh this is weird. Really weird."

"What?"

"The dialogue system. I built it to pull from a database of pre written responses with some randomization for variety, but this–-" Jungwon gestured at the screen. "This is learning. It's analyzing your responses and generating new dialogue options that don't exist in my database. It's writing its own conversations."

"Is that bad?"

"It's not bad, it's impossible. I didn't program that. I don't even know how to program that." Jungwon looked up at him, and for the first time since Heeseung had known him, he looked genuinely unsettled. "Your game is developing its own code."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the computer lab's ventilation system and the clicking of someone's mechanical keyboard a few desks over. "Is that dangerous?" Heseung asked.

"I don't know. Probably not? I mean, it's still just a game. It's not like it can affect anything outside of itself." Jungwon didn't sound entirely convinced though. "But it's definitely something I need to look into. This could be a massive bug or it could be the framework doing something really innovative that I didn't anticipate."

"But the game still works, right? Like, I can still finish it?"

Jungwon gave him a look. "You're really determined to finish this thing, aren't you?"

"I'm ninety percent through. I'm not stopping now."

"Even knowing that the game is apparently developing sentience or whatever?"

"It's not sentient, it's just adaptive," Heeseung said, trying to sound convincing.

Jungwon sighed and unplugged the switch, handing it back to him. "Okay, fine. But I'm keeping a copy of your save data so I can analyze this more. And maybe after you're done we can talk about what's actually happening here because this is either a huge breakthrough in game design or a really concerning glitch and I genuinely can't tell which." Heeseung nodded, pocketing the switch. "And Heeseung?" Jungwon's expression was serious now. "Be careful with the confession sequence. I know you want to get it right but just remember that at the end of the day it's still a program. It's responding to inputs and generating outputs. It's not actually feeling anything."

Heeseung nodded, but he was thinking about the way you'd looked at him during the sunset on the hiking date or about how your smile seemed genuinely happy when he won you the stuffed cat. "Right," he said. "Yeah, I know that." Jungwon didn't look convinced, and honestly, Heeseung wasn't either.

By the time he got back to his dorm that evening, he'd made a decision. He was going to finish the game. He was going to do the confession sequence. And he was going to be honest, say what he actually felt, because even if you were just code, the feelings were real, his feelings were real. That had to count for something. So he sat down at his desk, picked up his switch, and loaded the save file. the screen showed the usual menu: Continue, Load, Settings. He selected continue and the familiar loading screen appeared with its soft music and the progress bar that now read ninety percent. The world loaded and Heeseung found himself standing in front of a location marker that hadn't been there before. It was highlighted in gold and pulsing softly, and when he walked up to it, a notification appeared.

final date available: confession sequence. proceed?

Heeseung took a breath, his actual physical breath in his actual room, and then pressed yes. The world reformed around him and he was standing outside an apartment building he recognized as yours. The sun was setting, painting everything in warm golden light. His outfit had changed without him doing anything; he was wearing a button up shirt now, dark jeans, shoes that were nicer than anything he owned in real life. His hair felt different too, like someone had styled it properly instead of his usual routine of running his fingers through it and hoping for the best. And then a notification appeared:

quest: the perfect date. objective: confess your feelings. bonus objective: make it memorable. current stats — confidence: 95. charm: 80. emotional intelligence: 60. romantic interest: 90%.

Heeseung looked at the apartment door and a dialogue option popped up floating in his vision.

> knock on the door > text her that you're here > wait for her to come down

He selected the first option because knocking felt more personal, more intentional. He walked up to the door and knocked three times, and there was this weird moment where he could feel his heart actually racing even though he was pretty sure his real body was just sitting in a chair holding a controller. The door opened and you were there, and Heeseung forgot how to think for a second. You were wearing a dress, which he'd never seen you in before. It wasn't overly fancy, just simple and nice and it suited you in a way that made his chest tight. Your hair was down and you'd clearly put in effort and you looked nervous in a way that made him want to tell you that you had nothing to be nervous about. "Hi," you said, and you were smiling but there was something uncertain in it.

dialogue options: > you look really pretty > ready to go? > sorry, am i early?

Heeseung picked the first one without hesitating. "You look really pretty," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he expected.

Your smile got more genuine, less nervous. "Yeah? I wasn't sure if this was too much. You didn't tell me where we were going."

"It's perfect," Heeseung said, even though he also didn't know where you were going.

romance +5. successful compliment.

You grabbed your bag and locked the door behind you, and when you turned back to him there was this moment where Heeseung almost offered his hand but wasn't sure if that was too much. The game solved the problem for him by providing another choice.

action options: > offer your arm > walk beside her casually > hold her hand

He selected the first one, old fashioned but confident, and held out his arm. You looked at it for a second and then smiled and took it, linking your arm through his, and suddenly you were walking together down the street like this was something you did all the time. "So where are we going?" You asked, looking up at him.

"This place I found," Heeseung said, even though he hadn't found anything because this was a game and the location was predetermined. "I thought you'd like it."

The restaurant, when you got there, was the kind of place Heeseung had only seen in movies. Small and intimate with soft lighting and candles on every table and windows that looked out over the city. There was a host at the front who smiled at them like he'd been expecting them, and he led them to a table by the window without Heeseung having to say anything. You sat down across from him and looked around, eyes wide. "Heeseung, this place is really nice. You didn't have to do all this."

dialogue options: > i wanted to > you deserve it > it's not that fancy

He picked the second one. "you deserve it," he said, and you looked at him with this expression he couldn't quite read but that made something warm settle in his chest. The waiter came by with menus and Heeseung noticed that all the food options had little stat indicators next to them. Ordering the pasta would give a +5 to sophistication. The steak was +8 to confidence. The wine selection had various charisma bonuses. It was surreal, sitting in what looked like a real restaurant while video game mechanics floated at the edge of his vision. "What are you thinking about?" You asked, and Heeseung realized he'd been quiet for too long.

dialogue options: > just trying to decide what to order > thinking about how nice this is > thinking about you

The third option felt too direct, too soon, so he went with the second. "Just thinking about how nice this is," he said. "Being here with you."

You smiled and looked down at your menu, and Heeseung could see the faint blush on your cheeks. "Yeah. It is nice." You both ordered food and fell into easy conversation. You told him about something funny that happened in your class and he told you about nearly falling asleep during a lecture that morning. The food came and it was actually good, or at least the game's version of good, and Heeseung found himself relaxing into the moment.

Halfway through dinner, you reached across the table and stole a bite of his food without asking. It was casual and comfortable and exactly the kind of thing you'd done on previous dates, but this time when you pulled back, Heeseung caught your hand before you could fully retreat.

action options: > hold her hand > let go after a moment > bring her hand to your lips (high risk)

His confidence stat was at ninety five. He picked the first option and just held your hand there on the table, his fingers laced through yours, and you looked surprised for a second before your expression softened into something that looked almost relieved. "Is this okay?" Heeseung asked quietly.

"Yeah," you said, and your voice was just as quiet. "This is okay."

romance +10. physical intimacy initiated successfully.

You finished dinner like that, hands linked across the table, and Heeseung had never felt more present in a moment that he knew wasn't technically real. When the waiter brought the check, Heeseung paid without looking at it, because, well, that wasn't his real money. And you didn't protest, just squeezed his hand once and smiled. Outside the restaurant, the city had transformed into its night version. String lights hung between buildings and the streetlamps cast everything in a warm glow. There was soft music coming from somewhere, ambient and atmospheric. "Do you want to walk for a bit?" You asked. "I'm not really ready to go home yet."

dialogue options: > absolutely > whatever you want > i was hoping you'd say that

Heeseung picked the last one. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said, and you laughed and pulled him down the street, still holding his hand.

You walked through the city without any real destination, just moving together, and Heeseung was hyperaware of every point of contact between you. Your hand in his, the occasional brush of your shoulder against his arm, the way you'd lean into him slightly when you laughed at something he said. Eventually you led him to a park that Heeseung didn't remember seeing before. It was mostly empty at this time of night, just a few NPCs scattered around looking decorative. There was a fountain in the center and benches arranged around it, and you pulled him toward one of the benches and sat down, tugging him down next to you. You didn't let go of his hand. "Can I tell you something?" You asked, looking at the fountain instead of at him.

"Of course," Heeseung said.

You took a breath. "I really like spending time with you. Like, really like it. You make me feel like I can just be myself and that's enough, you know? I don't have to try to be cooler or funnier or different. I can just exist and you seem to like that."

Heeseung's throat felt tight. "I do like that," he managed. "I like you exactly how you are."

critical moment approaching. romance threshold: 95%.

You finally turned to look at him, and your expression was nervous and hopeful and vulnerable in a way that made Heeseung forget that you were supposed to be code. "The thing is," you continued, "I don't usually do this. I don't usually let people get close like this. But with you it felt easy from the start and now I'm just —" you stopped, searching for words. "I'm really happy you're here."

confession sequence initiated. select response: > i'm happy too > i feel the same way > i need to tell you something

Heeseung knew this was it. This was the moment the whole game had been building toward. All those dates, All those conversations, all those stat increases and romance points, everything had led to this choice. He could play it safe with the first two options or he could go all in with the third one. His confidence was maxed out. He'd earned this moment. So he picked the third option.

"I need to tell you something," Heeseung said, and his voice was steadier than he expected. "I didn't really know what to expect when we first met. I thought maybe it'd be awkward or forced or like every other time I've tried to get to know someone. But it wasn't like that at all." You were watching him carefully, not interrupting, and Heeseung kept going. "You're the first person in a really long time who makes me want to actually try, you know? Like, I want to be someone worth your time. I want to hear about your day and your opinions on League of Legends and game mechanics or how you wanted to live on a farm one day. I want to keep doing this, all of it, for as long as you'll let me." Romance stats were at 98% now. "What I'm trying to say is —" Heeseung paused, and the game provided one final choice, the last decision that would determine everything.

final confession: > i really like you > i think i'm falling for you > i'm in love with you

Heeseung looked at you, at the way you were watching him with your full attention, at the hope in your expression, at how real you felt in this moment. He picked the middle option, the one that was honest without being overwhelming. "I think I'm falling for you," he said quietly. "Actually, I don't think. I know. I'm falling for you and I don't really know how to stop and I don't think I want to."

The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the ambient sounds of the park faded into nothing. You were staring at him with wide eyes and Heeseung's heart was racing and for one terrible second he thought he'd picked wrong, said too much, ruined everything.

Then you smiled, the kind of smile that started small and grew until it took over your whole face, and you said, "oh thank god."

"What?"

"I've been trying to figure out how to tell you the same thing for like days now." You were laughing, almost giddy with relief. "I kept overthinking it and planning the perfect moment and the perfect words and then you just — you just said it and it was perfect anyway."

romance: 100% confession successful | achievement unlocked: reciprocated feelings.

"So," Heeseung said, because he needed to be absolutely sure. "Does that mean —" You didn't let him finish. You just leaned in and kissed him.

For a second, Heeseung's brain completely short circuited. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. He'd expected more dialogue options, maybe a choice prompt, some kind of warning that this moment was coming. But there was nothing, just the sudden warmth of your lips against his and the way his entire nervous system seemed to light up all at once. It wasn't dramatic or earth shattering or any of the things movies made kissing out to be. It was soft and brief and a little tentative, like you weren't entirely sure if you were doing it right. Your lips were warm and you tasted faintly like the wine from dinner and Heeseung could feel your hand trembling slightly where it was still holding his. He barely had time to process any of it, to kiss you back properly, before you pulled away, looking nervous again.

"Was that okay?" You asked, and your voice was quieter than before, uncertain. "I should have asked first probably but you were taking too long to —"

Heeseung cut you off by kissing you again, properly this time. He brought one hand up to cup your face and he could feel how warm your skin was under his palm, could feel the slight texture of it like actual skin and not polygons. His other hand stayed linked with yours and he squeezed gently, anchoring himself to you, to this moment that felt too real to be made of code. This kiss was different from the first one. Longer, more certain, like now that he knew what he was doing he could actually do it right. You made this small sound against his mouth, something between a sigh and a hum, and Heeseung felt it all the way down to his toes. He tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss and you responded immediately, your free hand coming up to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

This has too much detail, Heeseung thought distantly. Games didn't work like this. He shouldn't be able to feel the way your breath hitched when he kissed the corner of your mouth. Shouldn't be able to notice how you leaned into him, closing whatever small distance had been between you. Shouldn't be able to smell your perfume or feel the way your hair brushed against his hand when you tilted your head.

romance: 100%. relationship established | achievement unlocked: first kiss | achievement unlocked: good ending route - mutual confession.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, and Heeseung followed without thinking, not ready to stop yet. You laughed softly against his mouth, the sound vibrating between you, and kissed him again. This time it was you who took control, you who pressed closer, and Heeseung let you, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He could feel your heartbeat and that's what finally made his brain catch up to what was happening. His thumb was resting against your pulse point and he could feel it racing, quick and real and impossible. Games didn't simulate heartbeats. Games didn't need that level of detail. But he could feel it anyway, the proof that maybe you were here, that this was happening, even if it shouldn't be possible.

"Okay," you said quietly, and you were smiling. He could hear it in your voice even before he saw it.

Heeseung laughed, the sound coming out rougher than he intended. "That was better than okay."

You opened your eyes and looked at him, and Heeseung's breath caught because the detail was impossible. He could see the exact color of your eyes, could see the way they reflected the light from the streetlamps, could see the slight dilation of your pupils. This wasn't game graphics. This was too real. This was beyond anything Jungwon could have programmed. "You're staring," you said, but you didn't sound upset about it. If anything you sounded pleased, a little shy.

"Sorry," Heeseung said, but he didn't look away. "I'm just — you're really pretty."

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too wide, and Heeseung watched the movement with more attention than was probably appropriate. He wanted to kiss you again. He wanted to stay in this moment forever. He wanted to understand how any of this was possible. "Can I ask you something?" Heeseung said, his voice barely above a whisper because speaking any louder felt like it would shatter whatever spell they were under.

"Anything," you said, and your hand was still pressed against his chest and Heeseung wondered if you could feel his heartbeat too, if the game had coded that detail as well.

"Does this feel real to you?"

You tilted your head slightly, considering the question. "What do you mean?"

"This. Us. Right now." Heeseung knew he wasn't making sense but he needed to know, needed to understand if you felt it too, this strange impossible realness of everything. "Does it feel real?"

You were quiet for a moment, your expression thoughtful, and then you squeezed his hand. "It's the most real thing I've ever felt," you said simply. "Why? Does it not feel real to you?"

"No, it does. That's the problem." Heeseung couldn't explain what he meant without revealing that you were in a game, that this was all supposed to be simulation, that none of this should feel the way it did. "It feels too real."

"I don't think something can feel too real," you said, and you leaned in and pecked his lips, soft and quick. "Either it's real or it's not. And this is real." Heeseung wanted to argue, wanted to explain all the reasons why this couldn't be real, why you couldn't be real. Maybe it didn't matter. maybe real was just whatever felt like this. "Kiss me again," you said against his mouth, and it wasn't really a question. So Heeseung did. He kissed you until he forgot where he ended and you began, until the only thing that existed was this: You and him and this impossible moment that felt more real than anything in his actual life ever had.

Eventually though, the world started to glitch again. The colors began bleeding together and the sounds got distant and muffled. Heeseung felt that familiar pulling sensation and knew his time was up. "Hey," he said urgently, taking both your hands. "I—"

"It's okay," you said, and you were smiling even though your eyes looked sad. "I know you have to go."

"I don't want to."

"I know. But you'll come back, right?"

save data complete. route finished: good ending achieved. new game+ unlocked. additional content available.

"Yeah," Heeseung promised. "I'll come back."

You kissed him one more time, quick and desperate, and then the world dissolved completely and Heeseung was falling backward through light and color and static. He woke up gasping in his desk chair, controller clutched in his hands so tight his fingers had gone numb. The switch screen was showing the ending credits, rolling slowly with soft music playing. His face felt wet and he realized with some embarrassment that he was crying.

congratulations! you've completed the good ending route. relationship status: official couple. total play time: 51 hours, 23 minutes. would you like to start new game+ with additional couple content? yes / no

Heeseung stared at the options, his hands still shaking, his heart still racing. He thought about you, about your smile and your laugh and the way you'd kissed him. He thought about how none of it was real but all of it felt real, which was somehow worse. But there was more content. The game was offering him more time with you. More dates, more conversations, more moments. How could he say no to that?

His thumb hovered over the yes option for only a second before he pressed it. The screen went black. Heeseung waited. The switch made its usual loading sound, the soft hum that meant something was processing. He stared at the blank screen and waited for the menu to load, for the game to boot up, for something to happen. But nothing happened, the screen stayed completely black. No loading bar, no menu, no error message. Just his own reflection staring back at him in the screen's surface. He looked terrible, he realized distantly. His eyes were red rimmed and his hair was a mess and he looked like he hadn't slept in days, which was probably accurate.

"Come on," Heeseung muttered, pressing the home button. The switch menu popped up normally, showing all his other games, his profile, the usual interface. He clicked back into Girlfriend Simulator and the screen went black again. he waited another thirty seconds, nothing. He restarted the entire console. When it booted back up and he launched the game, the screen flickered once, twice, and then showed the title screen. Heeseung felt relief flood through him, almost dizzy with it. He clicked continue. The screen loaded for a moment, and then: game over. thank you for playing.

Credits started rolling. The same soft music from before, the same slow scroll of names and acknowledgments. Heeseung watched them pass in disbelief, his stomach sinking further with each line. When the credits finished, it kicked him back to the title screen. He clicked continue again. Same thing: game over, credits, title screen. "What the hell," Heeseung said out loud. He tried load game instead, pulling up his save files. They were all there, all his progress, all forty seven hours of gameplay. He selected the most recent one, the completed route with the good ending marker.

this save file has been completed |  start new game+ to continue.

He clicked yes. Black screen. Then after a long pause: error: unable to load content. 

"No no no no," Heeseung heard himself saying, clicking frantically now, trying every option, every menu, every possible path to get back into the game. Nothing worked. He checked the time on his phone. 3:29 am. He'd been playing for hours and now he'd been trying to reload for almost thirty minutes. His rational brain knew he should sleep, should deal with this tomorrow when he was thinking clearly, but his rational brain had apparently left the building several dates ago.

He pulled up his recent calls and hit jungwon's name before he could think better of it. it rang once, twice, three times. Then voicemail, Jungwon's voice cheerful and pre recorded telling him to leave a message. Of course Jungwon wasn't answering, it was almost four in the morning. Normal people were asleep at four in the morning. Normal people weren't having breakdowns over video games at four in the morning. Heeseung put his head in his hands and tried to remember the last time he'd felt this hollow about something ending. A relationship, maybe, though his dating history was sparse enough that he couldn't think of a good comparison. This felt worse somehow. The rational part of his brain that hadn't completely shut down was telling him this was ridiculous. Well, it could happen, people got attached to fictional characters all the time. The solution was obvious: take a break, get some perspective, maybe go outside and remember what actual human interaction felt like.

But the rest of him, the larger and louder part, was stuck on the way you'd looked at him on that park bench. The way you'd smiled when he gave you the flower. The way you'd kissed him like you'd been wanting to for a while and were just waiting for permission. The way you'd felt real, impossibly real, more real than most of the interactions he had in his day to day life. "It's not real," Heeseung said out loud to his dark room, his voice rough. "She's not real. It's just code. Just really good code that learned too well."

But his chest ached anyway. And somewhere around six am, Heeseung finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, his switch still sitting on his desk with the title screen frozen on the display. When his alarm went off three hours later for his morning class, Heeseung woke up feeling worse than when he'd gone to sleep. His eyes were gritty and his head hurt and his chest still had that hollow ache that he couldn't explain away as anything other than what it was.

Heeseung found Jungwon in the computer lab during lunch, exactly where he always was. "Hey," Heeseung said, dropping into the chair next to him. He pulled his switch out of his bag and set it on the desk between them. "The game broke."

"What do you mean broke?" Jungwon glanced at the switch, then at Heeseung, then did a double take. "Dude, you look terrible."

He decided to ignore that. "I mean I finished it. Got to the end, got the good ending, and then it asked if i wanted to start new game plus." Heeseung picked up the switch and demonstrated, clicking through the menus. "I said yes and then it just stopped working. Look, it keeps giving me this error or just showing the game over screen. I can load old saves but I can't progress forward."

Jungwon took the switch, frowning at the screen. He clicked through a few menus, tried the same things Heeseung had tried, and his frown deepened. "That's weird. The new game plus feature should be fully implemented. I tested it before I gave you the build."

"Well it's not working now."

"Yeah, I can see that." Jungwon was scrolling through something, his expression shifting from confused to concerned. "This is really strange. It's like the save file is corrupted but also not corrupted? Like it knows you finished the route but it can't load the post game content."

"Can you fix it?" Heeseung asked, and he hated how desperate he sounded but couldn't seem to help it.

Jungwon looked at him for a long moment. "I can try. I'll need to take this and run some diagnostics, see what's actually happening in the backend. But Heeseung, I need you to manage your expectations here."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this is a test build. That's literally why I asked you to play it, to find bugs like this. If something went seriously wrong with the code, if the file corruption is bad enough, I might have to rebuild the entire post game sequence from scratch. That's going to take time."

"How much time?" Heeseung asked, and his voice came out smaller than he intended.

"I don't know. Could be that I have to scrap this version entirely and start over with a clean build." Jungwon was being gentle about it but firm, like he needed Heeseung to understand the reality of the situation. "This is what testing is for dude, finding the breaking points before release."

Heeseung felt something sink in his chest. Weeks. Or maybe never, if Jungwon had to start over. "Okay," he said, because what else could he say. "Okay, just let me know what you find."

"Yeah." Jungwon pocketed the switch cartridge and gave Heeseung another concerned look. "Seriously though, are you okay? You're acting really weird about this."

"I'm fine," Heeseung lied. "Just frustrated. I was really into it and now I can't finish it."

"It's just a game though."

"I know that."

Jungwon didn't look convinced but he didn't push it either. "Okay. Well, go get some sleep or something. You look like you're about to pass out."

Heeseung nodded and left the lab, feeling hollow in a way that didn't make sense. It was just a game. Jungwon was right. He'd gotten too invested and now he needed to take a step back and remember that normal people didn't have emotional breakdowns over dating simulators. He went to his afternoon lecture and sat in the back and didn't retain a single word the professor said. He took notes anyway, his hand moving automatically across the page while his brain was somewhere else entirely. He kept thinking about you waiting in that park, kept wondering if you were still there or if you'd disappeared when the save file corrupted. Kept wondering if code could feel abandoned.

After class he went back to his dorm and tried to do homework. He opened his algorithms textbook and stared at the same problem for twenty minutes without making any progress. Jake came in around six, dumping his bag on the couch and immediately noticing something was off. "You good?" Jake asked, pulling off his jacket.

"Yeah, fine. Just tired."

"You've been saying that all week." Jake sat down at his own desk and spun his chair to face Heeseung. "You've been acting weirder than usual. What's going on?"

Heeseung considered lying but he was too exhausted to come up with anything convincing. "I was playing this game Jungwon made, got really into it and now it's broken and I can't play it anymore and I'm being weird about it."

"Oh." Jake processed this. "Was it one of those games with like, romance options and stuff?"

"Yeah."

Jake nodded slowly, like this explained everything. "Okay, those games are designed to get you attached, man, it's not your fault." He paused. "By the way, there's a party this weekend. Jay's throwing it at his place. You should come."

"I don't know," Heeseung said.

"Come on, it'll be good for you. Get out of your head for a bit. When was the last time you went to a party?"

Heeseung tried to remember and couldn't. "I don't know. Freshman year maybe?"

"Exactly. You need to socialize with actual human beings. No offense but you've been kind of hermiting lately." Jake was already pulling out his phone. "I'm telling Jay you're coming. It's saturday at eight."

"I don't —"

"Nope, you're coming. I'm not letting you sit here and mope about a video game all weekend. That's sad, even for you."

"What does that even—," Heeseung wanted to argue but he was too tired and Jake had a point. Sitting in his room thinking about you wasn't going to fix anything. Maybe going to a party would help. "Okay, yeah, fine," Heeseung said. "I'll go."

"Good. It's going to be fun." Jake turned back to his desk, already texting. "And who knows, maybe you'll meet someone."

Heeseung doubted that but didn't say it out loud. And saturday came faster than Heeseung expected, which was probably for the best because it meant less time to think about backing out. Jake had been monitoring him all day like he was afraid Heeseung would make a run for it, which was fair because Heeseung had definitely considered it at least three times.

By the time eight rolled around, Jake had already gone through Heeseung's entire closet and vetoed most of it. "You can't wear that, it has a stain. That one's too wrinkled. That shirt makes you look like someone's dad." Eventually they settled on black jeans and a dark blue button up that Heeseung had forgotten he owned, probably because he'd bought it for some family thing two years ago and never wore it again. "There," Jake said, looking satisfied. "You look like an actual person now instead of a sleep deprived computer science major."

"I am a sleep deprived computer science major."

"Yeah but you don't have to advertise it." Jake was already heading for the door. 

The party was at some place off campus that apparently belonged to Jay's older brother, which explained why it was bigger and nicer than most student housing. The music was loud enough that Heeseung could feel it in his chest before they even got through the door. Jake immediately got pulled into a conversation with some people from his econ class, and Heeseung grabbed a drink from the kitchen just to have something to do with his hands. He wandered through for a while, recognizing some faces from classes but not really knowing anyone well enough to join their conversations. this was why he didn't go to parties. He always ended up standing awkwardly in corners wondering when it would be acceptable to leave.

"Heeseung!" Someone called, and he turned to see Beomgyu waving at him from the balcony. "Dude, I didn't know you went to parties. Come here." Heeseung made his way through the crowd to the balcony where Beomgyu was standing with Soobin and Riki, and the air was clearer out here, easier to breathe. Beomgyu was holding what was very obviously a joint. "Want some?" Beomgyu offered, holding it out. "It's good stuff."

Heeseung normally would have said no because he had assignments due and didn't really like losing control of his thoughts, but tonight his thoughts were the problem so maybe losing control of them for a bit wasn't the worst idea. "Yeah, okay."

He took it and inhaled, immediately coughed. It felt someone had turned down the volume on all his anxious thoughts. He passed it back to Beomgyu and leaned against the railing. They stood out there for a while, passing the joint around, and Heeseung felt himself relax in a way he hadn't in days. Eventually they went back inside and the party had gotten more crowded. Heeseung got another drink and let himself get pulled into a conversation about the upcoming finals with some people he vaguely recognized from his algorithms class. The weed was making everything feel softer and more manageable, like he could actually handle being around this many people without wanting to escape.

Jake found him around eleven and looked genuinely shocked. "You're still here. And you're smiling. Did someone drug you?"

"I drugged myself, actually. Beomgyu had weed."

"Good for you. See, I knew this would be good for you." Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to get another drink. You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

And the weird thing was that Heeseung actually meant it. He was good. He was at a party and he wasn't hating it and he hadn't thought about the game in at least an hour. Maybe this was what moving on felt like, just slowly forgetting to think about the thing that had been consuming you.

He made his way toward where people were dancing, not to join them but just to watch, and that's when he saw you. Or someone who looked exactly like you.

You were in the middle of the crowd, dancing with a group of friends, and Heeseung's brain stopped. Same hair, same face, same smile he'd memorized over dozens of hours of gameplay. You were wearing a black dress and your hair was down and you were laughing at something one of her friends said, and Heeseung felt like he'd been punched in the chest. It couldn't be you. It just couldn't be. You weren't real. You were code, pixels, a character in a dating simulator that didn't even work anymore. But she looked exactly like you, moved like you, had the same mannerisms he'd come to recognize, and Heeseung couldn't look away.

He stood there frozen, drink forgotten in his hand, just staring. The weed was definitely not helping because it made everything feel surreal and dreamlike, like maybe he'd fallen asleep at the party and this was just his brain torturing him with what he couldn't have. You spun around to the music and laughed and Heeseung's heart was doing something painful in his chest.

And then, as if you could feel him watching, you turned and looked directly at him. Your eyes met across the crowd and the world seemed to stop. Your expression shifted from happy to confused to something Heeseung couldn't identify, like recognition but also shock, like you'd seen a ghost. A pretty one, actually. You stared at him with the same intensity he was staring at you, both of you frozen while people danced and laughed around them, completely oblivious to whatever moment was happening. And Heeseung's mind was racing. You seemed to recognize him, but that was impossible because you'd never met, because you were a stranger, because the person you looked like didn't exist outside of a video game. 

Your friends said something to you and you blinked, breaking eye contact. You looked at them, said something Heeseung couldn't hear over the music, and then looked back at him one more time. That same confused, almost dazed expression. Then you turned back to your friends and kept dancing, but your movements were more mechanical now, less loose, like you were going through the motions while your mind was somewhere else. Heeseung just stood there, rooted to the spot, his drink sweating in his hand. His heart was pounding and his head was spinning and he couldn't tell if it was the weed or the shock or both. Probably both. He was high at a party and he'd just seen someone who looked like a video game character and convinced himself it meant something. He was hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating. Or the weed was laced with something. Or he'd finally actually lost his mind.

He turned and pushed through the crowd, Making his way to the bathroom. He needed to splash water on his face, Needed to get his head straight, needed to stop seeing you everywhere just because he missed the game. Heeseung practically fell inside and locked the door behind him. He turned on the faucet and let the water run cold, then splashed it on his face once, twice, three times. The shock of it helped, made everything feel more real and less dreamlike.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were definitely red from the weed and he looked slightly unhinged, hair messed up from running his hands through it too many times. "You're fine," he told his reflection. "You're high and you're seeing things and you're fine. She just looks like her. Lots of people probably look like her. Jungwon probably based the character on some generic attractive person template. It doesn't mean anything."

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. He splashed more water on his face, dried off with a questionable towel that was hanging on the rack, and tried to pull himself together. He couldn't hide in the bathroom all night. He needed to go back out there, find Jake, maybe go home and sleep this off. Maybe in the morning this would all make sense or at least feel less overwhelming.

He opened the door and nearly ran directly into you. "Oh, I'm sorry," you said quickly, stepping back.

Heeseung froze. Up close you were even more exactly like the character from the game, every detail perfect, from the shape of your eyes to the way you were nervously adjusting the strap of your dress. You looked at him for a second, that same confused recognition flickering across your face, and then you moved to step past him.

"Wait," Heeseung said, turning before he could stop himself. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "I'm sorry, do we know each other from somewhere?"

You stopped and turned back, tilting your head slightly as you studied his face. "No, I don't think so. I think I'd remember if we'd met before." You paused, and then your eyes widened slightly like you'd just heard what you said. "I mean, not that I'm saying you have a particularly memorable face or anything. Wait, that sounds bad. I'm not saying you're forgettable either, you're just— " you stopped yourself and took a breath. "Sorry, I'm making this weird. I don't think we've met but you do seem familiar somehow."

Heeseung just stared at you, his brain trying to process the fact that you were standing in front of him, real and solid and rambling nervously in the exact same way the game character had. The same mannerisms, the same voice, the same way of talking yourself into circles when you were flustered. It was you. It was actually you. "Are you okay?" You asked, looking concerned now. 

"Sorry, yeah, I'm fine." Heeseung tried to pull himself together. "You just really remind me of someone."

"Good someone or bad someone?"

"Good someone. Definitely good someone."

You smiled at that, a small genuine smile that made Heeseung's chest ache because he'd seen that exact smile dozens of times through a screen. "Well that's good at least. I'm Y/N, by the way."

"Heeseung."

"Nice to meet you, Heeseung." You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, and Heeseung noticed your phone in your hand. The case had a photocard of a character that he recognized immediately — Janna from League of Legends, in her star guardian skin.

"You play league?" He asked before he could think better of it.

Your face lit up. "Yeah! How'd you know?"

"Your phone case."

"Oh my god, yes." You turned your phone to show him properly, looking pleased that he'd recognized it. "I'm a Janna main and I'm not ashamed of it." Heeseung felt something cold run down his spine. Those words. he'd heard those exact words before. "I know, I know," you continued, in the same tone, the same cadence. "Support is boring or whatever, but someone has to keep the ADC alive and it might as well be me."

Heeseung couldn't breathe. Word for word. You'd just said exactly what you'd said in the game, with the same inflection, the same defensive pride. This wasn't a coincidence. This couldn't be a coincidence. "What rank are you?" He managed to ask, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

"Plat 2. I was almost diamond last season but then I had finals and gave up on the grind." You were fully animated now, talking with your hands. "What about you, do you play?"

"Yeah. Diamond 3."

"Oh so you're actually good." You looked impressed. "We should play together sometime."

The world tilted. Heeseung was pretty sure he was having some kind of break from reality because this conversation had already happened. He'd already lived through this exact exchange in the game, and now it was happening again in real life with a real person standing in front of him saying the same things.

"Heeseung!" Someone called out, and Heeseung turned to see Jungwon pushing through the hallway crowd, looking genuinely shocked. "Holy shit, you actually came to a party. I didn't think I'd see this day." Jungwon reached them and then seemed to notice you for the first time. His expression shifted from surprised to confused. "Wait, you two know each other?"

"You know each other?" Heeseung and you said at the exact same time, then looked at each other in surprise.

Jungwon looked between the two of you, his confusion deepening. "Yeah, Y/N's in my game design class." He turned to you. "And Heeseung's my best friend, we're in the same program."

"Wait, so you're that Heeseung!" You looked at him. "He talks about you all the time, by the way. I know your entire sleep schedule at this point."

"That's concerning," Heeseung said.

"Very concerning," you agreed. "So what brings you to the party?" You asked Heeseung. "Jungwon made it sound like you're basically a hermit who only emerges for classes and food."

"My roommate forced me to come. Said I needed to socialize."

"Same, actually. My best friend is around here somewhere." You glanced back toward the party. "She has this theory that I spend too much time gaming and not enough time experiencing real life."

"Gaming is real life," Heeseung said.

"Exactly! That's what I told her." You seemed genuinely pleased that he understood. "But she's on this whole thing about how I need to make more friends and go out more and whatever. So here I am, at a party, making friends." You gestured between yourself and Heeseung. "Look at me, being social."

"You're doing great," Jungwon said, sounding amused.

"Thanks, I'm trying." You checked your phone quickly. "Speaking of my roommate, she's texting me asking where I went. I should probably get back." You looked at Heeseung. "But seriously, add me on league. I meant what I said about playing together."

"Yeah, I will," Heeseung said, and he meant it even though his brain was still trying to process the fact that you were real and standing in front of him.

"Cool. See you guys around." You smiled at both of them and headed back toward the party, weaving through the people in the hallway.

The moment you were out of sight, Heeseung grabbed Jungwon's arm and pulled him toward the front door, outside where it was quieter and they could actually talk without shouting over music. "Dude, what the hell," Heeseung said the moment they were on the sidewalk. "You used her to make the character in the game?"

Jungwon blinked at him. "What? No. What are you talking about?"

"The character in girlfriend simulator. She's exactly like Y/N. Exactly like her, Jungwon. Same face, same personality, same everything."

Jungwon's confusion seemed genuine. "Heeseung, the character customization is completely random for each player. I'm still working on implementing a proper character creator but I ran out of time, so right now it just generates a random appearance based on some base parameters. I didn't use anyone specific as a model."

"That's impossible. She looks exactly like her."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah! I spent fifty one hours with that character. I know what she looks like." Heeseung could hear how unhinged he sounded but he couldn't stop. "And it's not just appearance. The way she talks, the things she said— it's all the same, like, word for word."

Jungwon was quiet for a moment, his expression shifting from confused to concerned. "Okay, I think you need to calm down for a second. I think maybe you played the game too much and now you're seeing patterns that aren't there. Like, you spent all week interacting with this character and now you meet someone who has some similar traits and your brain is making connections."

"Jungwon, I'm not making it up."

"I'm not saying you're making it up, I'm saying your brain might be filling in similarities that aren't actually there." Jungwon pulled out his phone. "Look, I don't even really know Y/N that well. We work on projects together but we don't like, hang out or have deep conversations. I definitely didn't use her as a base for anything."

Heeseung felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Then how do you explain the game knowing things about her? The league stuff, the personality, all of it?"

"The game generates dialogue based on common interests and gaming culture. Lots of people play league. lots of people main support. It's not that weird that there'd be overlap." Jungwon looked genuinely worried now. "Heeseung, I think the game messed with your head more than I thought it would. Maybe we should scrap it entirely."

"No," Heeseung said quickly. "No, I just — I need to understand what happened."

Jungwon sighed. "Look, I actually gave the game to Y/N to test too. A while back, before I gave it to you."

Heeseung's head snapped up. "You what?"

"There's an option in the loading screen. You can choose to play as the protagonist or as the girlfriend. I thought it would be cool to have both perspectives, make it more replayable." Jungwon was scrolling through his phone now. "You didn't see that option?"

"No. There was just a loading screen and then it started."

"Weird. It should have given you a choice." Jungwon pulled up what looked like a message thread. "Anyway, I gave Y/N a beta version to test like a month ago. But she gave it back to me after one day. Said it was too realistic and kind of freaked her out."

"What do you mean too realistic?"

"She said the immersion was too intense. She said it made her uncomfortable how real the boyfriend character seemed." Jungwon looked up from his phone. "Which, now that I think about it, is basically the same thing you've been saying about the girlfriend character."

Heeseung's mind was racing. "So she played it. She played the game from the other perspective."

"Yeah, but just for a few hours. She didn't finish it or anything." Jungwon pocketed his phone. "Why does that matter?"

"I don't know. It just — " Heeseung stopped, trying to organize his thoughts.

Jungwon was watching him carefully. "You look kind of freaked out right now."

Heeseung leaned against the wall of the building, suddenly exhausted. "I just spent a week falling for someone who I thought was just code. And now I find out she looks like a real person and I've been talking to her for the past fifteen minutes like a normal person and I don't know what to do with that information."

"Well, she gave you her discord. You could message her. Play some League together. Get to know the real her instead of the game version." Jungwon paused. "Unless that's too weird for you."

So when Heeseung was ready to leave the party, Jake and Jungwon looked almost disappointed but didn’t argue. They made their way through the crowd toward the front door, and that’s when Heeseung saw you again. You were standing on the sidewalk with two other girls, you were bent over laughing, that genuine kind of laugh where you forget to be self conscious about it.

Heeseung slowed down without meaning to, and Jake nearly walked into him. But then you looked up, like you could sense someone watching. your eyes met Heeseung’s across the sidewalk and you smiled, a smile that felt almost conspiratorial. Like you two were in on a joke that nobody else knew about. Which was insane because you’d met like half an hour ago and had one conversation in a hallway. One of your friends said something and you broke eye contact, still smiling, and climbed into the back seat of the car. Through the window Heeseung could see you saying something that made your friends crack up again. The car pulled away and you didn’t look back, but Heeseung kept staring at the taillights until they disappeared around the corner.

“Okay, what was that?” Jake asked.

“What was what?”

“That whole…” Jake gestured vaguely. “Moment. You guys were having a moment.”

“We weren’t having a moment.”

“You were definitely having a moment. Who was that?”

“Just someone I met. Friend of Jungwon’s.” Heeseung started walking toward their dorm and Jake followed, still looking suspicious.

“You met someone and had a moment with them? At a party? Did I slip into an alternate dimension?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious, this is unprecedented behavior from you. You don’t do moments with strangers.” Heeseung didn’t know how to explain that it hadn’t felt like meeting a stranger. It had felt like running into someone he already knew, someone he’d been thinking about for days. Which was objectively insane but that didn’t make it any less true.

When they got back to the dorm, Jake immediately went to take a shower, still talking about the party through the bathroom door. Heeseung sat down at his desk and opened his laptop, pulling up discord before he could talk himself out of it. He typed your name into the search bar. There were like fifteen results but he scrolled through until he found one account that matched your username, with a profile picture that matched; a cute drawing of what looked like a cat in a witch hat. He clicked on your profile and immediately started going through your connected accounts and activity like some kind of creep, but whatever, that’s what public profiles were for, right?

Steam account: 847 hours in League of Legends, which was honestly rookie numbers compared to his own. Recently played Roblox, which he wasn’t going to judge because he had his own embarrassing game collection. He’d been growing a garden in Grow a Garden for like six months now and his sunflowers were thriving, thank you very much. Stardew Valley with 234 hours, which was extremely respectable and also adorable. Unpacking with a lot of hours, which he’d never played but had heard good things about. And The Sims 4 with an amount of hours that suggested you had a serious problem with simulation games. Which, to be honest, he kind of had it now too.

Your Spotify was connected too and he could see you’d been listening to a lot of bedroom pop and indie stuff. Your about me section just said “life ain't cookies n cream lil fella,” which made Heeseung chuckle. You had a sense of humor, which is something he kind of already knew, even though he only knew the game version of you.

Heeseung realized he’d been sitting there scrolling through your profile for like ten minutes and definitely needed to actually send the friend request before this got any weirder. He clicked add friend and then immediately closed his laptop like it might explode. He tried to do other things. He checked his phone. He looked at his algorithms homework and immediately closed that because absolutely not. He reorganized the pens on his desk. He considered making ramen but wasn’t actually hungry. Until his laptop pinged. Heeseung lunged for it so fast he almost his water bottle off the desk. He opened discord and there it was: you accepted his friend request. His heart was doing something stupid in his chest. It was just a discord notification, normal people didn’t have heart palpitations over discord notifications. But Heeseung wasn't normal anymore.

But before he could stop himself, before his brain could catch up with what his hands were doing, he opened the dm and typed hey and then, because apparently he was determined to embarrass himself, he sent the little waving robot sticker that discord suggested unintentionally. He stared at what he’d just done in absolute horror. The waving robot. He’d sent you the waving robot sticker. “Oh my god,” Heeseung said out loud to his empty room. His fingers were already flying across the keyboard.

heeseung: sorry lol heeseung: idk why i sent that heeseung: the robot i mean heeseung: anyway hi

He watched the three dots appear that meant you were typing. they disappeared. appeared again. Disappeared. Heeseung was going to have a heart attack.

you: no the robot was cute you: very welcoming you: really set the tone

Heeseung couldn’t tell if you were making fun of him or not.

heeseung: the tone being what exactly heeseung: desperate? you: i was gonna say endearing but sure we can go with desperate

Heeseung laughed out loud, an actual laugh that made Jake yell “You good?” from the bathroom. Heeseung didn't answer. 

heeseung: cool cool cool love that for me heeseung: starting strong you: you’re doing great you: so did you add me just to apologize for an emoji or was there something else

Heeseung stared at the message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could play it cool, say something casual about League or whatever. Or he could be honest, which was terrifying but also the weed was still kind of in his system making everything feel less scary than it probably should.

heeseung: honestly i just wanted to talk to you more heeseung: the conversation in the hallway was cool

The thing was, Heeseung felt bold saying that. Actually bold. This was probably the most direct he’d been with someone (in real life) in years, and he half expected you to think it was weird or too forward or whatever. But you didn’t. You just said “aw that’s sweet, me too!” with a smiley face and kept talking, and Heeseung felt something in his chest unclench. And you talked for hours. About games mostly, because that was the safe territory, the common ground. You told him about how you had been completely consumed by Pokemon Legends ZA, playing it every free moment you had. He admitted he’d loved Arceus when it came out but hadn’t gotten around to ZA yet, and you immediately started telling him everything he was missing out on, your messages coming in quick bursts of enthusiasm about the new mechanics and the Kalos region and how you’d already put in like sixty hours.

You asked him what his favorite games of all time were and he gave you his top five, and you had opinions about all of them, good opinions, the kind that made him want to keep talking just to hear what you’d say next. Somewhere around 1am you sent: “btw you seem really cool hee. we should play something together sometime if you’re down” and Heeseung stared at that message for long enough. You’d called him hee. You’d given him a nickname. And you wanted to play games together. His fingers hovered over the keyboard and he could feel his face getting warm, which was stupid because you couldn’t even see him, but his body didn’t seem to care about logic.

heeseung: yeah definitely heeseung: i’d be really down for that

You sent back a heart emoji and said you had to sleep, and Heeseung said goodnight, and then he just sat there for a minute staring at the conversation like if he looked at it long enough he could figure out what was happening to him. He was down bad, really down bad. Which was insane because he’d been down bad before this even happened, down bad for a video game character that turned out to look exactly like you, and now he was down bad for the actual real you, and his brain couldn’t quite process the overlap. It felt like two separate situations that had merged into one extremely confusing situation that he didn’t know how to handle.

When he finally went to bed that night, he had that specific feeling you get when something really good has just happened and you’re lying in the dark replaying it in your head. That flutter in your stomach, that slight buzz of excitement, that sense that you’ve just met someone who’s probably going to matter. Someone who’s going to take up space in your life in a way you can’t predict yet but can already feel coming.

And he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t spend the entire next week looking for you on campus. Not in a weird way. Or maybe in a weird way, but he was trying to make it not weird. He’d just happen to walk past the design building between classes. He’d just happen to take a longer route to the dining hall that went by the areas where Jungwon said you usually hung out. He’d just happen to check the game design lab when he was meeting Jungwon, looking around all casual like he wasn’t actively scanning for your face.

Monday: nothing. Tuesday: he saw someone with similar hair from behind and did a weird half jog to catch up only to realize it was absolutely not you and he’d just chased down a complete stranger for no reason. Wednesday: he sat in the campus coffee shop for two hours pretending to do homework but really just watching the door. Thursday: more nothing. By friday Heeseung was starting to think maybe you were a figment of his imagination, maybe the whole party had been a fever dream, maybe he’d made you up entirely. So by afternoon Heeseung had given up. He was going to the library to actually do the algorithms homework he’d been ignoring all week, and he was going to stop being a weird person who wandered around campus hoping to accidentally run into someone.

Except then he walked into the library and saw you. You were tucked into a corner on the second floor, the quiet study section where people went to actually focus. Your laptop was open in front of you, headphones on, and you were doing that thing where you chewed on your pen cap while reading something on the screen. There were books and papers scattered around you in what looked like organized chaos, and your coffee cup said something in sharpie that Heeseung couldn’t read from where he was standing like a creep behind a bookshelf.

Okay. Okay, this was fine. This was a normal situation. You were here, he was here, both of you were in a library because that’s what students do. He just had to walk over there and say hi. Simple. Easy. Not weird at all. But what if you were in the zone? What if you were working on something important and he interrupted and you got annoyed? What if you didn’t actually want to see him and had just been being polite when you said you should play games sometime? He could just sit near you, not like right next to you, but in the general area. That would be natural. He needed to study anyway, it made sense to sit in the quiet section. So he picked a table that was close but not too close. Close enough that you might notice him but far enough that it didn’t look intentional.

He sat down and pulled out his laptop and his textbook, arranging them very carefully, very normally. Then he just sat there, staring at his algorithms homework. Not doing it, just staring. But five minutes passed and you hadn’t looked up. Heeseung opened his laptop. Closed it. Opened it again. He was being ridiculous. He should just get up and go say hi because that’s what normal people did. Normal people didn’t stage elaborate accidental meetings, they just walked up and said hello. He stood up, sat back down, stood up again. And then you finally looked up. Heeseung froze, half standing, half sitting, in the most awkward position possible. You pulled off your headphones and your face went from confused to surprised to happy in the span of like two seconds.

“Heeseung?” You said, keeping your voice library quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Studying,” Heeseung said too quickly, and then realized he was still in that weird half crouch position and sat down properly. “I mean, I was about to. study. I’m here to study.”

You smiled and Heeseung’s brain stopped for a moment. “Oh cool. Me too, obviously.” You gestured at your chaos of books and papers. "Working on this project that’s slowly killing me.”

“Do you want company?” Heeseung asked, and then immediately wanted to take it back because what if you said no, what if you were here specifically to study alone, what if—

“Yeah, actually that’d be nice.” You started clearing some space on your table, moving books and papers around. “I’ve been here for like three hours and I’m losing my mind. Could use a distraction.” So Heeseung grabbed his stuff and moved to your table, trying very hard to look like this was a normal thing he did all the time, sitting with people in libraries, being a person who had casual study sessions with other people. “So,” you said, once he was settled across from you. “What are the odds we both ended up in the same random corner of the library?”

“Pretty low, probably,” Heeseung said. “Weird coincidence.”

You agreed, and there was something in the way you said it that made Heeseung think maybe you knew it wasn’t really a coincidence, maybe you’d seen him doing his weird laps around the second floor, but you were being nice about it. You settled into studying, or at least Heeseung pretended to study while you actually did work. You’d put your headphones back on but kept one ear uncovered, just in case he needed to ask you something about something, which he definitely wasn’t going to do because he wasn’t actually reading anything on the page in front of him.

Instead he was watching you, maybe in a weird way, but he couldn’t help it. Because sitting there across from you, seeing you up close in the quiet library light, Heeseung was hit with how much you looked like the character from the game. It wasn’t just the face, though that was uncanny enough. It was the mannerisms and the little things, like the way you bit your bottom lip when you were concentrating, eyes narrowed slightly at your screen. The way you’d tuck your hair behind your ear every few minutes even though it would just fall back. The way your nose would scrunch up a little when you read something confusing. He’d seen all of this before, dozens of times, in the game. I mean you had done all of these exact things, in the game.

You looked up suddenly and Heeseung’s eyes immediately darted to his textbook, pretending he’d been reading the whole time. He could feel you looking at him for a second before you went back to your work, and Heeseung let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. This happened like four more times. Very smooth. Very natural. Definitely not obvious at all.

Then you checked your phone and made a small sound of surprise. “Oh shit, I have class in ten minutes.” You started packing up your stuff quickly, shoving papers into your bag without any real organization. “I totally lost track of time.”

“Yeah, me too,” Heeseung lied, because he’d been very aware of every single minute.

You stood up, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and then you leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. Just like that. Casual and quick. Your lips pressed against his cheek for maybe half a second before you pulled back. “Thanks for keeping me company,” you said, smiling. “See you later, Hee.”

And then you were gone, weaving through the tables toward the stairs, and Heeseung just sat there frozen. His hand slowly came up to touch his cheek where you’d kissed him, like he needed to confirm it had actually happened. His face felt hot. His brain felt scrambled. You’d kissed him on the cheek. People did that, right? That was a normal friend thing? Except you barely knew each other so were you even friends? And why did his cheek feel like it was burning? And Heeseung realized he was just sitting there touching his face like a complete idiot and forced himself to put his hand down. He should pack up, he should go to his next class. He should do literally anything except sit here having a crisis over a cheek kiss. But he didn’t move, he just sat there, staring at nothing, replaying the moment over and over. 

“You good, man?” Heeseung’s head snapped up. Jungwon was standing next to the table, looking at him with concern and also amusement, which was a terrible combination.

“When did you get here?”

“Like two minutes ago. You were very deep in thought.” Jungwon sat down and then casually tossed something onto the table. The switch cartridge, the Girlfriend Simulator cartridge. Heeseung stared at it. “I fixed the game.” Jungwon leaned back in his chair, looking proud of himself. “You can keep playing from where you left off. It was easier to fix than I thought it’d be, just had to rebuild some of the backend routing for the post game content.” Heeseung picked up the cartridge, turning it over in his hands. "The save file's intact," Jungwon continued. “All your progress is still there. The new game plus should work now. I tested it on my switch and it loaded fine."

"Thanks,” Heeseung said, and his voice came out quieter than he meant it to. He shoved the cartridge into his bag and stood up. “I’m leaving."

“Don’t you have that lecture in twenty minutes?”

“Don’t care. Bye.” He left Jungwon sitting there chuckling and headed straight out of the library, across campus, back to his dorm. Jake wasn’t there, which was good because Heeseung didn’t need any more people commenting on his alleged vibe. He sat down at his desk and just looked at the cartridge for a minute. He should think about this. should consider whether playing the game again was a good idea now that he knew you, the real you. Now that things were getting complicated in a way that made his head hurt. But he wasn’t thinking. He was just plugging in his switch, loading up the game, watching the title screen appear with its soft music and clean typography.

continue from last save? yes / no

Heeseung pressed yes immediately. The world materialized around him in that same disorienting rush, colors bleeding into focus, sounds filtering in like someone was slowly turning up the volume. When his vision cleared, he was standing exactly where he’d left off at the park. The fireflies were still drifting lazily through the air like they’d been paused mid flight waiting for him to come back. And you were still sitting on the same bench, looking at him with an expression that made Heeseung’s chest tight.

“You’re back,” you said, and your smile was so genuinely happy it hurt to look at. You stood up and walked over to him, and Heeseung noticed the way the game rendered every detail. The way your hair moved, the exact shade of your eyes, the slight flush on your cheeks. “I missed you.” The words hit him harder than they should have. Heeseung opened his mouth and closed it, trying to figure out what to say. In the game, no time was supposed to have passed. He’d left right after your confession, after the kiss, and now he was back and theoretically it should feel like seconds had gone by. But for him it had been days. Almost a week. A week where he’d met the real you, talked to you, sat across from you in a library, felt your lips on his cheek.

Dialogue options appeared: > i missed you too > sorry i was gone so long > it feels like it’s been forever

Heeseung picked the first one because it was the most honest. “I missed you too,” he said, and he meant it in a way that felt complicated and confusing.

You stepped closer, close enough that Heeseung could see the individual pixels that made up your irises, except they didn’t look like pixels at all. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “After everything, I thought maybe you’d just… disappear.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Heeseung said automatically, and then felt weird about it because he kind of had done that, he’d been gone for days even if the game didn’t register it that way.

romantic interest: 100% | relationship status: committed | new content unlocked

You reached up and touched his face, your hand warm against his cheek, and Heeseung’s brain short circuited a little because he could feel it. the texture of your palm, the slight pressure of your fingers. This level of detail shouldn’t be possible. “I really like you,” you said, looking directly into his eyes. “Like, a lot. Is that okay?”

Before Heeseung could pick a dialogue option for that, you kissed him. It wasn’t like the first kiss, this was different. Your hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck and you pressed closer, and Heeseung forgot for a second that this was supposed to be a game. His hands found your waist automatically, pulling you against him, and you made this small sound that he felt more than heard. When you pulled back, you were breathing harder and your eyes had this look in them that Heeseung recognized from somewhere, that slightly dazed expression people get when they’re thinking about something they want. “Do you want to come back to my place?” You asked, your voice lower now, and your hand was still on the back of his neck, fingers playing with his hair in a way that was extremely distracting.

quest update: relationship progression available | warning: mature content ahead | proceed? yes / no | action options: > yes, i’d like that > maybe we should slow down > are you sure?

Heeseung stared at the options. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. This was new, this was definitely new. The game had never had anything like this before. Jungwon had mentioned adding post game content but he definitely hadn’t mentioned adding this kind of content. “Heeseung?” You said, tilting your head slightly. “You okay? We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought—”

“No, I want to,” Heeseung said, picking the first option before he could overthink it. “I definitely want to.”

Your smile turned into something that could only be described as pleased, maybe a little mischievous. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You took his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and started walking. The park dissolved around you in that smooth transition the game did, colors bleeding together and reforming into a new location, your apartment, and it looked different now, with softer lighting, more intimate somehow. There was music playing quietly from somewhere, something ambient and atmospheric. You let go of his hand and walked further, then turned to look at him. “You can sit down, you know. You don’t have to just stand there.” Heeseung moved to the couch and sat down, hyperaware of every movement, every detail. His hands felt sweaty and his heart was racing. This was insane, this was absolutely insane. He was about to have virtual sex with a video game character that looked exactly like a real person he’d just met and had a weird complicated semi crush on. You sat down next to him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his. “Can I ask you something?” You said.

“Sure.”

“Why did you come back?” Your expression was serious now, searching his face. “I mean, you finished the route. You got the good ending. You didn’t have to come back.”

dialogue options: > i wanted to see you again > i wasn’t ready to say goodbye > because i care about you

Heeseung picked the third option. “Because I care about you,” he said, and it felt true even though it shouldn’t, even though you were code, even though this wasn’t real.

“I care about you too,” you said quietly. Then you leaned in and kissed him again, and this time Heeseung didn’t think about the game mechanics or the dialogue options or any of it. He just kissed you back. Your hands slid under his shirt and Heeseung gasped slightly at the sensation, the feeling of your fingers on his skin. It felt real, too real, like impossibly real. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark. “Is this okay?” You asked, your hands still under his shirt, warm against his stomach.

action options: > yes > this is more than okay > [pull her closer]

Heeseung picked the third option and pulled you closer, and you made this satisfied sound and kissed him harder. You shifted in his lap so you were straddling him, and Heeseung’s brain was trying very hard to process the logistics of what was happening. This was a Nintendo Switch game. This was running on a console made for Pokemon and Mario Kart. There was no way this level of content was actually programmed in here. You smiled and kissed his jaw, then his neck, and Heeseung felt his brain dissolve into static. Your teeth grazed his skin lightly and he made a sound that was probably embarrassing but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

intimate scene progression: 45% | continue? yes / no current comfort level: high | romantic tension: maximum |achievement unlocked: relationship deepening

The notifications kept appearing in his peripheral vision and Heeseung tried to ignore them because they were extremely distracting and also kind of killing the mood, if a video game could have a mood, which apparently this one could. “Hey,” you said, pulling back to look at him. Your face was flushed and your lips were slightly swollen and you looked devastating. “You’re thinking too hard. I can tell.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

dialogue options: > nothing’s wrong > this feels really intense > i’m just overwhelmed > i keep forgetting this isn’t real

Heeseung wanted to pick the last option but that felt like it would break something, some unspoken rule about the game. So he picked the third one. “I’m just overwhelmed,” he admitted. “In a good way. You’re just really… a lot. In the best way possible.”

You softened at that, your expression shifting from concerned to affectionate. “You’re sweet, you know that?” You kissed his cheek. “We can slow down if you want. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“No, I want this,” Heeseung said, and he did, desperately, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t. “I’m just trying to figure out how this is even possible.”

“How what’s possible?”

“You. This. All of it.” Heeseung knew he wasn’t making sense but the words kept coming anyway. “You feel so real. More real than anything I’ve experienced before. More real than most things I've experienced in actual life, honestly."

You looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in your expression. Then you said, very quietly, "Maybe that’s because I am real.”

The world glitched. Just for a second, so quick Heeseung almost missed it. The lighting flickered, the textures of the room seemed to shift and resettle, and there was this sound, like static, like interference. You didn’t seem to notice. You were still looking at him with that same expression, waiting for him to respond. error log: reality sync mismatch detected | warning: boundary deviation exceeding normal parameterssystem status: unknown variable introduced

“What do you mean?” Heeseung asked, his voice coming out strained.

“I said maybe I’m real. Maybe this is real. Does it matter?” You touched his face again, gentle. "Does it change anything if I'm real or not real? You’re here, I’m here, this moment exists. Isn’t that enough?”

dialogue options:> yes, that’s enough > no, i need to understand what’s happening >i think something’s wrong with the game > [kiss her to avoid answering]

Heeseung stared at the options, his heart pounding. Part of him wanted to pick the second or third option, wanted to understand what was happening, wanted to figure out why the game was doing things it shouldn’t be able to do. But another part of him, the larger part, just wanted to stop thinking and exist in this moment with you, real or not real, code or person or whatever you were. So he picked the fourth option. His hands moved before his brain could catch up— one sliding to the small of your back, the other cupping your jaw  —  and he pulled you in, kissing you like the question itself might disappear if he just didn't let go. You made a soft, surprised sound against his lips, but it melted into something needier, as you kissed him back just as fiercely.  His hands slid up your thighs, over the soft fabric of your dress, until his fingers found the hem. He tugged lightly, a silent question, and you answered by pressing closer, your body rolling against his in a way that pulled a rough sound from his throat.

action options: > pull her closer > slide hands under her dress > grip her waist and guide her hips > [kiss her neck]

Heeseung didn't even look at the options properly this time. He picked the third one instantly, fingers digging into your waist as he pulled you flush against him, guiding the slow, deliberate grind of your hips. You gasped into his mouth, nails scraping lightly down his chest through his shirt, and the sound you made was needy and it went straight through him. "Heeseung," you breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to look at him. your cheeks were flushed deep, lips swollen and wet, dress riding up slightly from the way you were moving in his lap. "You feel—"

He didn't let you finish. He kissed you deeper, harder, tongue sliding against yours like he needed to taste every part of you. One hand stayed firm on your waist, keeping the rhythm, while the other slipped higher under the hem of your dress, tracing the bare skin of your thigh. You shivered, thighs tightening around his hips, and he felt you press down harder, chasing the friction. You pulled back suddenly, just far enough to grab the bottom of his shirt. Your eyes locked on his, asking. He nodded once, barely, and you tugged it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The second it was gone, your hands were on him again, palms sliding over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle like you were mapping him out. "Better," you whispered, voice rough now, and then your mouth was on his collarbone, kissing down his chest, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss. Heeseung's head fell back against the couch for a second, eyes squeezing shut, before he surged forward again.

action options: > pull the straps of her dress down > flip her onto the couch > trace her back and pull her even closer > [let her take control]

He picked the third, hands sliding up your back under the thin straps of your dress, fingers splaying wide as he pulled you impossibly closer. Your chest pressed against his, skin on skin now except for the flimsy fabric between you, and he could feel your heart racing just as fast as his. You moaned softly against his neck, hips moving faster, more desperate, and Heeseung matched the rhythm, guiding you with his grip on your waist. Every roll of your body against his made his breath catch, made the heat coil tighter low in his stomach. Your hands were everywhere — his hair, his shoulders, nails dragging down his back— and he was losing it, completely losing it.

action options: > slip the straps down her shoulders > lift the dress over her head > tease the hem higher > [kiss her while undressing her]

He picked the first one, sliding the straps down slowly, watching as the dress loosened and slipped lower, exposing more of your skin. You didn't stop him, instead, you arched your back slightly, helping it along, your eyes locked on his with a look that dared him to keep going. The dress pooled around your waist, and Heeseung's breath caught at the sight of you, bare from the waist up, the soft curve of your breasts rising and falling with each breath. "God," he muttered, voice barely audible, and then he leaned in, mouth finding the sensitive spot on your neck. He kissed there first, open mouthed, then grazed his teeth lightly, sucking just enough to leave a faint mark. You tilted your head back, giving him better access, a low moan escaping your lips that vibrated against his skin. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and Heeseung felt that coil of tension wind tighter, his hips bucking up instinctively to meet your rhythm. The friction was maddening, too much and not enough, and he could feel himself hardening against you, the thin layers between you doing nothing to dull the sensation.

intimate scene progression: 92% | arousal level: peak | system warning: immersion threshold breached

A faint static hum buzzed in his ears for a split second, the room's edges blurring like a bad render, but it passed as quickly as it came. You didn't notice, or if you did, you didn't care — your focus was on him, on the way his mouth moved down your neck to your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face flushed, eyes glassy with want. "Heeseung," you said, voice husky and breathless, "Do you want to take this to the bedroom? We can… get more comfortable."

The action wheel popped up: action options: > carry her to the bedroom > pull her up and walk together > push her down on the couch instead > [deepen the kiss and decide later]

Heeseung picked the first one without a second thought. In one fluid motion, he stood, arms wrapping around your waist to lift you effortlessly. You yelped in surprise, legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. the sudden shift made you cling to him, arms around his neck, and Heeseung kissed you hard as he carried you, tasting the salt on your lips from the heat of the moment. The transition was seamless, the game dissolving the living room around you in that familiar bleed of colors, reforming into your bedroom. Soft lighting from a bedside lamp, sheets rumpled like they'd been waiting, the air thicker somehow. Heeseung lowered you onto the bed gently, following you down, his body covering yours as he settled between your legs. You looked up at him, hands sliding down his chest to his waistband, fingers teasing the edge. "Now where were we?" You whispered, pulling him closer.

Heeseung lowered you onto the bed gently, the mattress dipping under your combined weight as he settled between your legs. Your dress was already bunched high on your thighs, and the air between you crackled with anticipation. You looked up at him through half lidded eyes, hands tugging at his waistband, pulling him closer until his hips pressed against yours. The heat of you through the thin fabric was driving him insane — his hands braced on either side of your head, breath ragged as he leaned down to kiss you again, deeper, hungrier.

But just as his fingers brushed the hem of your dress to slide it off completely, everything froze. The world glitched hard; colors inverting for a split second, a low error chime ringing in his ears like a nintendo switch low battery warning. You froze mid motion, lips parted, eyes wide and unblinking, like a paused cutscene. The music cut out. Notifications exploded across his vision in a pop up that took over half the screen:

kink compatibility survey | new content unlock: personalized intimacy  | please select preferences to optimize experience (this will not affect main storyline) > time remaining: 30 seconds

Heeseung blinked, staring in horror as a massive form materialized, checkboxes scrolling down like some deranged tinder profile from hell:

> light bondage (ropes/silk)  > dirty talk  > praise kink  > edging/teasing  > oral focus (giving)  > oral focus (receiving)  > spanking/light impact  > roleplay  > sensory play (blindfold/ice)  > vanilla only  > [custom: type here] slider: intensity (1-10)  | save & continue

His face burning hotter than the tension from seconds ago. "What the fuck is this?" His thumbs mashed the joy cons frantically, heart pounding from equal parts embarrassment and urgency. Thirty seconds? He wasn't even thinking straight — he just spam clicked the safe ones to get it over with. Checkmark on praise kink. Oral focus (both). Dirty talk (why not, he was already losing his mind). Slider cranked to 7 because... yeah. No bondage — keep it simple, game. Vanilla only stayed unchecked because apparently this freakshow had layers.

preferences saved! | compatibility: 92% | resuming scene...

The pop up vanished with a cheerful ding. You unfroze instantly, blinking like nothing happened, your hands resuming their path down his chest. "Hee?" you murmured, voice soft and teasing, thighs parting wider beneath him. "You okay?"

He swallowed hard, brain still reeling. "Yeah, yeah." You smiled, wicked and knowing somehow, and pulled him down into another kiss. His hands finally obeyed, pushing the dress the rest of the way off your hips, sliding it down your legs until you were bare except for your underwear. The sight of you all spread out hit him. He trailed kisses down your chest, mouth closing over one nipple, sucking gently as you arched into him with a gasp. "You feel perfect," he whispered against your skin, the praise slipping out naturally, and you shivered, fingers threading into his hair. His hand slid lower, between your thighs, fingers brushing over the damp fabric of your underwear. You moaned his name, hips lifting eagerly, and Heeseung pressed harder, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that had you writhing. "So wet for me already," he murmured, voice rough with want, testing the dirty talk, and god, it worked, because your breath was hitching beautifully.

You tugged at his pants impatiently. "Off. Now." He obliged in a blur, shedding them along with everything else until there was nothing between you. He hooked his fingers into your underwear, pulling them down slowly, eyes locked on yours as he tossed them aside.

action options: > taste her first > enter her slowly > tease with fingers > [let her guide]

He picked the first, Heeseung's mind was a haze of want and disbelief as he settled between your thighs, your legs parting wider for him like an invitation he couldn't refuse. The sight of you — bare, glistening, so ready —made his mouth water. This is a game, he reminded himself, heart pounding. Just a fucking game. I can do whatever I want. Things I'd never have the guts to try in real life. No judgment, no consequences. Just you, writhing under him, and the freedom to indulge every filthy thought he'd ever buried.

He hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer until his face was buried between your legs. His tongue flicked out experimentally at first, tasting you, sweet and tangy, like nothing he'd imagined, but better. You bucked against him with a sharp gasp, and that sound flipped a switch. Heeseung groaned against you, the vibration making you whimper, and he dove in deeper, tongue flat and broad as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, voice muffled against your skin, dirty words spilling out because why the hell not? In real life, he'd be too shy, too careful, but here? He could be filthy. "So wet for me already, dripping down my chin. You like that, huh?"

You moaned louder, hands fisting the sheets, then tangling in his hair to pull him closer. "Yes god, Heeseung don't stop." Your voice was wrecked, breathy and desperate, and it fueled him. He sucked your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it in circles, then flicking fast and hard, alternating with long, sloppy licks that had you trembling. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open, spreading you wider so he could bury his face deeper, nose pressing against you as he devoured you like he was starving.

action options: > add fingers > suck harder > tease her entrance > [talk dirtier]

He picked the fourth mentally, because fuck it, this was his chance to let loose. "Tell me how good it feels," he growled, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over your slick folds, watching you shiver. "Tell me you want my tongue fucking you deeper."

"Please," you gasped, hips grinding up toward his mouth, chasing the contact. "Heeseung, your tongue— fuck, it's so good. Deeper, I need it deeper."

He plunged his tongue inside you, thrusting it in and out, mimicking what he wanted to do with his cock later. His thumb found your clit, rubbing firm circles while he tongue fucked you, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. You were soaking him, face, chin, and he loved it, lapping it up greedily, humming in approval at how messy it was getting. "You're gonna come on my face, aren't you?" He taunted, voice rough and low, pulling back to suck your clit again, harder this time, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. "Do it. Come for me, show me how much you love my mouth on this pretty pussy."

You arched off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit, waves crashing through you. Heeseung didn't stop, licking you through it, drawing it out until you were oversensitive and twitching, begging him to ease up. only then did he pull away, lips shiny and swollen, grinning up at you with a wicked, satisfied look. "Good girl," he praised, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though he didn't really want to, part of him liked the mess, the evidence. you were panting, eyes hazy as you reached for him. He crawled back up your body, capturing your lips in a kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue, another thing he'd never dare in real life, but here it felt right, hot. "You taste yourself? So fucking dirty," he whispered against your mouth, positioning himself at your entrance. "Ready for more?"

"Yes please," you begged, nails digging into his shoulders, your voice a needy whine that made his cock twitch against you. You were so wet, slick from his mouth and your own release, and Heeseung could feel the heat radiating from you, pulling him in. But before he could thrust forward, the game intervened again again: 

position selection: customize your intimacy  > missionary (classic connection)  > doggy style (deeper access)  > her on top (let her ride)  > against the wall (intense standing)  > [spooning (gentle side entry)]  

Heeseung stared at the options, a mix of arousal and exasperation flooding him. Jungwon, you pervert, he thought, adding a fucking position menu? He timer was ticking— 15 seconds — and you were frozen mid breath, eyes locked on his with that desperate, submissive Gaze that made him want to wreck you. He picked the third option fast, because fuck, the idea of you riding him, taking control but still under his command? Yeah, that was it. The menu vanished with a satisfied beep, and the scene resumed seamlessly. You blinked, as if nothing happened, but your hands were already pushing at his chest gently, urging him to lie back. "Let me... let me ride you," you murmured, voice soft and obedient, like you were reading his mind, or the game's script. "Please? I want to make you feel good."

Heeseung grinned, dark and dominant, shifting onto his back and pulling you with him until you straddled his hips. His hands gripped your thighs hard, fingers digging in possessively as he looked up at you, flushed, eager, completely at his mercy. "Yeah? You wanna ride my cock like a good girl?" He growled, the words coming easier now, dirtier, because this wasn't real life. No holding back. 

You whimpered, hands bracing on his chest, your hips grinding down instinctively against his length, coating him in your wetness. "Please, Hee... I need you inside me so bad. I'll be good."

Fuck, he thought, she's so subby, so perfect. The game's kink sync must've kicked in, amplifying everything — your voice trembling, eyes wide and pleading, body arching like you were made to submit. Heeseung's hands slid up to your hips, guiding you, lifting you just enough to position himself at your entrance. "That's my girl. Sink down on me slow— let me watch you take every inch." You obeyed instantly, lowering yourself onto him, the head of his cock pushing past your folds, stretching you open. It was agonizingly slow, and Heeseung groaned low in his throat, feeling the tight, wet heat envelop him inch by inch. You were so fucking real, hotter than any game should allow, clenching around him like velvet, your walls fluttering as you took him deeper.

"Oh god you're so big," you gasped, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as you adjusted, a shiver running through you. It felt too real, the stretch, the fullness, the way he throbbed inside you, every vein and ridge pressing against your sensitive spots. Heeseung could feel it all, amplified, like the game had cranked the sensitivity to max. Sweat beaded on his skin, your thighs trembling around him, and for a second, he forgot it was code — this was you, real you, riding him.

intimate scene progression: 98% | dominance level: high | submission sync: optimal | warning: haptic feedback overload

A faint glitch rippled through the air — the lamp flickering, your moan echoing with a digital edge for a heartbeat — but it only made him thrust up harder, hands gripping your ass to pull you down rougher. "Ride me, baby. Bounce on my cock," he commanded, voice gravelly and demanding, slapping your ass lightly to spur you on. "Faster, come on."

You moaned louder, hands on his chest for leverage as you started moving up and down, hips rolling in circles that ground your clit against him. "Like this? Fuck, Heeseung it feels so good— you're so deep." Your voice broke on a whimper, body obeying his every cue, riding him harder, faster, tits bouncing with each thrust.

Heeseung bucked up to meet you, thrusting deep enough to make you cry out, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat gently. "That's it, take it all. You're mine in here, aren't you? My perfect little girl, creaming all over my cock." You clenched tighter, nodding frantically.

"Yes—fuck, Heeseung, I love it. You're so deep, so big...." Your voice was breathy, submissive, breaking on moans as you submitted completely, body moving exactly how he wanted, faster when he slapped your ass, slower when he pulled you down hard.

action options: > thrust up harder > put a finger in her mouth > choke lightly > [pull her hair]

Heeseung picked the second without hesitation, his thumb tracing your lower lip before pushing it into your mouth. You sucked on it immediately, tongue swirling around it like it was his cock, eyes half lidded and locked on his, so obedient it made his dick twitch inside you. "That's it, suck it like a good girl," he rasped, your wet lips wrapped around his finger, drool starting to drip. "Imagine it's my cock in your mouth while I fuck this tight pussy. You'd take both, wouldn't you?" You moaned around his thumb, sucking harder, hips stuttering as the added sensation pushed you closer to the edge. Then, in the corner of his screen, a new notification flickered: partner preference update: increase roughness? yes / no | affinity: high for dominant play

She likes it rougher? Heeseung thought, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mentally selected yes. Wow, this is way easier than in real life. The game adjusted instantly, your moans turning needier, body arching more desperately as he ramped up the intensity. "You want it rougher, huh?" He taunted, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting it to your lips. He grabbed your hips hard enough to bruise — if this were real— and thrust up sharply, slamming into you with more force. "Beg for it then. Tell me how bad you want me to wreck this pussy."

"Please—fuck me harder, Heeseung," you cried out, leaning forward to brace on his shoulders as you rode him faster, chasing the roughness.

intimate scene progression: 99% | climax indicator: approaching for both | options: prolong / climax now / switch position

The bar flashed red in his peripheral, both your arousal meters pulsing near max. He could feel it too, the coil tightening low in his gut, your body starting to tense and shake. But Heeseung wasn't ready to end it. He selected prolong and switch position, flipping the script. He rolled you both over, pulling out just long enough to maneuver you onto your side, spooning behind you. His chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tight, the other lifting your thigh high. "Not yet," he whispered hot against your ear, nipping the lobe. "Gonna fuck you like this now." You nodded weakly, pushing your ass back against him. Heeseung thrust back in from behind, the angle hitting deeper, his cock dragging against your g-spot with every slow, rough pump. His hand slid between your legs, fingers circling your clit fast and hard, while his other arm pinned you close. "That's my good girl," he growled, pounding into you now, the spooning position letting him grind deep. "Taking it so well." Your moans turned into desperate sobs, body arching back into him.

Heeseung's thrusts were relentless, his cock dragging deep inside you with every slow, powerful snap of his hips. You were a whimpering mess against him, back arched, ass grinding back to meet him as his fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. "Fuck you're so tight like this," he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder, leaving a mark that made you shiver.

intimate scene progression: 99.5% | climax indicator: critical for both | options: prolong / climax now / switch position

The meters were flashing urgently now, his own arousal bar teetering on the edge, but Heeseung still wasn't done — he wanted more, wanted to push the limits of this insane game until it broke. One more switch, he thought, selecting prolong and switch position again. The game responded instantly, a soft chime echoing as he pulled out, flipping you onto your stomach with rough hands. You gasped at the sudden movement, face down on the bed, ass up as he positioned himself behind you, knees spreading your thighs wide. "On your stomach, baby— ass up for me," he commanded. He slapped your ass hard, the crack echoing, your skin blooming red under his palm, and you cried out, pushing back eagerly like the subby little thing the game had turned you into. "That's right, take it. You love being fucked like this, don't you?"

You nodded into the sheets, voice muffled and needy. "Yes—god, yes, Heeseung." The game's encouragement popped up in his vision — dominance boost: activated | roughness level: max | achievement: total submission unlocked — and it spurred him on, like the system was egging him to go further, deeper into the filth.

He thrust back in from behind, burying himself to the hilt in one rough stroke, the angle hitting even deeper, making you scream into the pillow. His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, pounding into you with brutal force, skin slapping loud and obscene. "So fucking wet, dripping all over me," he snarled, spanking your ass again, harder this time, alternating cheeks until they were stinging red. You arched higher, offering more, moans turning into sobs of pleasure. He tangled one hand in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your neck, lips brushing your ear as he growled, "look at you, taking my cock like a good girl. Beg for more — tell me how much you need me to ruin this pussy."

"Please—ruin me, Heeseung," you begged, voice breaking. The game flashed more incentives — rough play affinity: 100% | continue for bonus immersion — and Heeseung lost it, spanking you in rhythm with his thrusts, pulling your hair tighter to arch your back, fucking you rougher, faster, the bed shaking under the force. Glitches were hitting harder now, but it only made him thrust deeper, the hyper real sensations overwhelming: the sting of your skin under his palm, the tight ripple of your walls around him, your sweat slicked back against his chest.

intimate scene progression: 99.99% | climax indicator: imminent | warning: system overload detected

He was right there, teetering on the edge, cock throbbing inside you, but you twisted slightly, looking back at him with glassy, desperate eyes. "Heeseung — cum inside me, please," you implored. "Fill me up, I need it."

For a split second, his brain stopped. Wait, cum inside? What if— but then reality (or unreality) hit him comically hard. It's a game, dumbass. Pixels can't get pregnant. He almost laughed mid thrust, the absurdity breaking through the haze, but he shoved it aside, diving back. "Yeah? You want me to breed this tight pussy?" He growled, slamming into you harder, spanking one last time for good measure. "Beg for it louder—"

"Yes—fuck, Hee!" You cried, clenching around him desperately, body trembling on the brink. "Cum inside me, please— breed me, make me yours!" That did it. The climax hit like a wave, crashing over you both at once. Heeseung thrust deep one final time, groaning loud as he spilled inside you, feeling the hot pulse of his release mix with your own orgasm, walls milking him dry. You screamed his name, body convulsing under him, the shared peak amplified by the game — sensations exploding, vision blurring with pleasure and glitches alike.

As your body shuddered through the aftershocks, Heeseung collapsed beside you, pulling you close against his chest with a gentleness that felt worlds away from the roughness just moments ago. His arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand stroking your hair softly, fingers threading through the tangled strands like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. The room was still glitching faintly, but he ignored it, focusing on you, on the way your breaths synced with his, slowing down together.

intimate scene complete | aftercare mode: activated | relationship bond: unbreakable | achievement unlocked: emotional intimacy peak

Heeseung pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, his voice dropping to a whisper, sweet and caring, laced with concern. "Hey... you okay? I got carried away back there. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

You looked up at him, eyes soft and hazy, a small smile tugging at your lips as you snuggled closer, head resting on his chest. "No, Hee... I liked it. A lot. It was perfect." Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his skin, voice turning playful, like the dynamic lingered just a bit. "You made me feel so good. Don't apologize."

He chuckled quietly, relief washing over him, and he hugged you tighter, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Good. I just... want to take care of you now." The game prompted options in his vision, soft and glowing: aftercare options: > hold her closer > kiss her gently > whisper sweet nothings > [offer water/snack] -- he picked the third, leaning down to murmur against your ear, "you're amazing, you know that? So beautiful, so perfect for me. I could stay like this forever." You hummed contentedly, body relaxing fully into his, the contrast hitting him. The glitches were fading, but notifications kept pinging: comfort level: maximum | post intimacy glow: active | save progress? yes / no

You shifted slightly, looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Affectionate, but something deeper, almost knowing. "Heeseung..." your voice was quiet. "See you out there."

He blinked, confusion creasing his brow. "What do you mean?" He sat up a little, heart picking up again, but before you could answer — or before the dialogue wheel could pop up — the world started dissolving. colors bled out, the room flickering violently, static roaring in his ears like a system crash.

error log: forced logout initiated | reality sync: restored | session terminated

Everything went black. Heeseung jolted upright in his chair, the Switch still clutched in his sweaty hands, the screen dark and powered off. His room came into focus: the dim light from his desk lamp, posters on the wall, the faint hum of his pc in the background. His heart was racing, breaths coming fast, and then he felt a sticky, warm mess in his pants, soaking through his boxers. "What the—" he muttered, voice cracking as the full reality sank in. His face burned hotter than ever, cheeks flaming red as he shifted in the gaming chair. He'd actually cum inside his pants. For real. Not just some weird dream or an asleep fantasy — no, full on, pants ruining orgasm from a Nintendo Switch Girlfriend Simulator game. "Holy shit."

Heeseung stared at the dark screen in his hands, the console now completely powered off, innocent looking with its cute joy cons and pastel buttons. It looked so harmless sitting there on his lap, like it hadn't just mind fucked him for hours and then physically fucked him back. He finally set the switch down on his desk, pushing it as far away as the cords allowed. He groaned, dropping his face into his hands.

After cleaning himself up in the bathroom — which involved avoiding eye contact with his own reflection because he couldn't handle the judgment he knew he'd see there — Heeseung collapsed onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. His body felt loose and tired in a way that should have been relaxing but instead just made him feel deeply, profoundly embarrassed.

The worst part was that he wanted to do it again. That was what really got him. Not the fact that it happened, but the fact that his brain was already thinking about when he could play next, or well, when he could fuck you next. He felt like a teenager who'd just discovered something he definitely shouldn't have and was now completely obsessed with it.

He'd spent most of his Sunday in his room alternating between staring at his Switch and telling himself he absolutely was not going to play it again, which had been moderately successful except for the part where he'd picked it up four different times before forcing himself to put it back down. So on that week, he started walking across campus toward the engineering building, head down and hoodie up because he felt like everyone could somehow tell what he'd done just by looking at him, when he saw you. You were sitting on one of the benches outside the library with your laptop open, clearly working on something, your hair pulled back and you were wearing an oversized hoodie that had some game logo on it he couldn't quite make out from this distance. Heeseung immediately changed direction. 

He took the long way around the building, added an extra five minutes to his walk, and showed up to lecture slightly out of breath. He was very deliberately not thinking about the fact that he'd just actively avoided you. Which was ridiculous. You hadn't done anything, you didn't even know what had happened. You probably hadn't thought about him at all since that day at the library, were probably just sitting there doing homework like a normal person while Heeseung was having a complete psychological breakdown over a video game.

The problem was that every time he thought about you now, his brain immediately supplied images from the game. The way you'd looked at him, the way you moaned, the sounds you'd made, the way you came, the way it had felt so impossibly real that his body had reacted like it was actually happening. And now he couldn't separate that from the real you, the person he'd met at the party who'd been nice and funny and way too easy to talk to. The rest of the week continued like this. He saw you everywhere now, which was ironic because before the party he'd never noticed you once and now you were apparently in every building he entered. Tuesday you were in the coffee shop in the student center. Wednesday you walked past him in the hallway between classes. Thursday he saw you in the library again, this time on the second floor, and he'd actually turned around and walked back out.

His switch was on his desk, fully charged, basically taunting him. He'd managed to avoid playing it all week, had told himself he was being responsible and mature about the whole situation. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time his mind wandered, it went right back to that night, to the game, to you. And his body was betraying him too, which was mortifying. He'd be sitting in lecture and think about the game for half a second and suddenly he'd have to adjust his laptop to hide the fact that he was getting hard in the middle of algorithms class. It happened during study sessions, during meals, during completely random moments when his brain decided to remind him that the game existed and he could play it whenever he wanted.

He felt disgusting. He was kink shaming himself, which he didn't even know was possible, but here he was, lying in bed at two am feeling like a creep for being attracted to a video game character who happened to look exactly like a real person he'd met. But he also couldn't stop thinking about playing again. About whether it would be like the first time or if there were other features, other scenarios. His brain kept supplying possibilities and his body kept responding and he felt trapped in this cycle of shame and want that he didn't know how to break.

And then on friday afternoon, Heeseung was in his dorm trying to focus on an assignment that was due monday when someone knocked on his door with the kind of aggressive persistence that could only be Jungwon. He considered pretending he wasn't home but Jake had already opened the door before Heeseung could say anything. "Oh hey Jungwon," Jake said. "He's here but he's been weird all week so good luck."

"Thanks for the warning," Jungwon said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He went to Heeseung's room and looked at him, who was very deliberately staring at his laptop screen. "Okay, we're going to Five Guys. Get up."

"I'm busy."

"No you're not." Jungwon grabbed Heeseung's hoodie off his chair and threw it at him. "Come on. We're getting burgers and you're going to tell me why you've been ignoring me all week."

"I haven't been ignoring you."

"You answered my texts with one word responses and you've avoided me on campus. That's ignoring me." Jungwon crossed his arms. "So either you come willingly or I'm going to make a scene. Your choice."

Heeseung knew Jungwon well enough to know he absolutely would make a scene. "Fine. But I'm not hungry."

"You're never not hungry. Let's go." And twenty minutes later they were sitting in Five Guys with their orders, the place mostly empty since it was that weird time between lunch and dinner.

Heeseung had been hoping the walk would give him time to figure out what to say to Jungwon, but instead he'd just spent it thinking about the game and feeling more and more uncomfortable. Because the thing was, if Heeseung had done what he'd done in the game, that meant Jungwon had programmed it. Jungwon had sat at his computer and coded in all those options, all those scenarios, all those very specific and detailed features that Heeseung had discovered. Which meant either Jungwon was way more perverted than Heeseung had ever given him credit for, or something else was going on.

"Okay, you're doing it again," Jungwon said, interrupting Heeseung's spiral. "You're being weird and quiet and you won't look at me. What's going on? Is it about the game? Did something break again?"

Heeseung knew he had to say something because this had gone too far. Because if the mature content was intentional, then they needed to have a very different conversation about boundaries and warnings and maybe Jungwon's concerning lack of shame. And if it wasn't intentional, if this was some kind of glitch or malfunction, then that was somehow even worse because it meant the game was doing things beyond anyone's control. Either way, Heeseung couldn't keep avoiding this. Jungwon was his best friend. If he couldn't talk to Jungwon about this, even if it was mortifying, then what was the point of having a best friend? So Heeseung admitted: "Yeah, it's about the game."

"Okay, so tell me." Jungwon looked at him.

"Look, you could've just... you could have warned me that it had adult content." Heeseung forced himself to look at Jungwon. "Like, explicit that I wasn't expecting in a dating simulator."

Jungwon blinked at him. "What?"

"I'm just saying, a heads up would have been nice. I know you're trying to make it realistic but I wasn't prepared for how detailed it was going to get."

"Bro, what are you talking about?"

And then it all came out like Heeseung couldn't stop himself. "I'm talking about the fact that the game has very explicit scenes with very detailed options and I don't know if you've ever actually looked at what you programmed but it's intense, Jungwon. Like the dialogue options were insane, I could say basically anything and the character would respond and some of those options were really freaky. And the action options were even worse, there were so many of them and they were all very specific and very detailed and I'm not going to list them but oh my god and then there was a whole section where it asked me about preferences and kinks and I thought that was just for character building but no, it actually used that information! And there were position suggestions. Position suggestions, Jungwon! With fucking diagrams, man. Why did you add diagrams?! And the whole thing was just very immersive and very realistic and I had a physical reaction that I'm not going to elaborate on but I think you can figure out what I mean and I've been avoiding you all week because I didn't know how to have this conversation without wanting to die of embarrassment."

Heeseung finally stopped to breathe and realized Jungwon was staring at him with an expression of complete bewilderment. "Heeseung," Jungwon said slowly. "I didn't add any of that content."

"What."

"I didn't program explicit scenes. There's no adult content in the game. It's a dating simulator not a porn game. The most intimate it gets is like, hand holding and maybe a kiss at the end if you get the good ending." Jungwon set down his burger. "What are you talking about dude?"

"Don't fuck with me right now."

"I'm not fucking with you, I'm being completely serious." Jungwon was looking at him, shocked. "I didn't add any of that stuff. I wouldn't even know how to program half of what you just described. Like what the fuck is even a kink questionnaire?!"

Heeseung felt cold. "Then how did I experience it, man?!"

"I don't know!" Jungwon was still shocked. "But this actually makes sense now. Y/N's been avoiding me too this week, even more than you have. She won't answer my texts and she literally ran away from me in the hallway yesterday. I thought maybe she was mad at me about something but what if she experienced the same thing you did?"

"What do you mean?"

"Okay, last Friday, remember when you were studying in the library and Y/N left suddenly? I texted her right after she left asking if she wanted to try the updated version of the game and she texted back immediately saying yes and that she was coming to get it right then." Heeseung remembered that day, your phone had buzzed and you'd looked at it and your whole expression had changed, you'd packed up your stuff so fast, muttering something about being late for class even though Heeseung was pretty sure you didn't have class at that time. "She took the game and left," Jungwon continued. "I didn't hear from her after that until she texted me the next day saying she was returning it and that she didn't want to play anymore. And now she won't talk to me."

"What time did she take the game?" Heeseung asked, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

"I don't know, maybe around four? Four thirty?" Jungwon paused. "Why?"

Heeseung felt like the world was tilting. "I picked up the game from you around four forty five. Remember?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So we both had the game that night. We both played it that same night." Heeseung's mind was racing, putting pieces together. "And you're saying there's no adult content programmed into the game. But we both experienced something intense enough that we're both avoiding you. And we both played it at the same time."

Jungwon's eyes widened. "Oh my god."

"What if—" Heeseung stopped, because what he was about to say sounded insane. But everything about this situation was insane. "What if the game connected us somehow? What if when we both played it at the same time and it put us in the same… I don't know, session?"

"That's not possible because I didn't program any multiplayer features."

"You also didn't program explicit content but I definitely experienced it, man!" Heeseung put his head in his hands. "Jungwon, the character in my game looked exactly like Y/N, exactly like her. And you said the character customization was random."

"It is random. I didn't—" Jungwon stopped. "Wait. She actually said something similar. When she gave the game back she mentioned that the boyfriend character looked really realistic, like someone she could actually know."

Heeseung felt like throwing up. "Did she say who?"

"No, she just said it freaked her out how real he seemed."

Heeseung was pale now. His brain was doing that thing where it tried to process too much information at once and ended up just kind of spinning in place. You had played the game, you had seen a character that probably looked like him. You had found it so realistic it freaked you out. And then you'd played it again last friday, the same day he did, probably around the same time. And Jungwon was sitting here swearing he hadn't programmed any of the content that Heeseung had definitely experienced. Which meant one of two things: either Jungwon was full of shit, which didn't make sense because why would he lie about this, or the game had somehow done something it wasn't supposed to do. Connected two players who didn't know they were playing together, made them interact without telling them, let them do things with each other while both of them thought they were just playing a single player game with really good immersion.

And if that was true, if you'd actually been playing together, then the character Heeseung had been with wasn't just some algorithm. It was you, making choices and responding to him. Doing all those things that he'd been replaying in his head all week. Which meant you'd been doing those things with him, or with a version of him, and you probably had no idea it was real either. So Heeseung stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "What's Y/N's dorm?"

Jungwon blinked at him. "What?"

"Her dorm. Which building is she in?"

"Uh, west campus. Building C, I think? Room 304, why?"

"I gotta go." Heeseung was already grabbing his hoodie.

"Ho where? Heeseung, what—" but Heeseung was already walking, he heard Jungwon call after him something about texting him later but he wasn't really listening. His mind was too busy spiraling through everything he needed to say to you, everything he needed to ask, everything that didn't make sense.

The walk to west campus took fifteen minutes but it felt both longer and shorter than that. Heeseung's hands were shaking and he shoved them in his pockets. He tried to figure out what he was going to say. Hey, so I think we accidentally had virtual sex through a Nintendo Switch last week and neither of us knew it was real. Yeah, that would go over great. Or maybe, hi, remember how we both played that game? Turns out we were playing together. Surprise! Yeah, also worse.

By the time he got to building C, he still hadn't figured it out. Heeseung stood outside the door and realized he couldn't actually get in without a key card or someone letting him in. He was standing there trying to figure out his next move when the door opened and two girls walked out, laughing about something on one of their phones. Heeseung caught the door before it closed and slipped inside. Probably not his finest moment in terms of dorm security, but he was past caring about minor rule violations.

He stood in front of your door for a solid thirty seconds, hand raised to knock, unable to make himself actually do it. This was insane, he was insane. He should turn around and leave and text Jungwon and let Jungwon handle this because Jungwon had made the game and this was technically his responsibility. But he didn't leave, he knocked. And nothing happened for a long moment. Heeseung was starting to think maybe you weren't home, or maybe you were home but ignoring the door, when he heard movement from inside. Footsteps and then a pause. Then your voice, muffled through the door.

"Who is it?"

Heeseung's mouth was dry. "It's Heeseung."

Another pause, longer this time. He could picture you on the other side of the door, probably frozen, probably panicking, probably wondering why the hell he was at your dorm right now. Then the lock turned and you opened the door. You were pale, like actually pale, but you smiled anyway. "Hi Hee. Is… everything alright?"

Heeseung looked at you. You were in pajamas, soft looking sweatpants and an oversized hoodie with some faded band logo on it. Your hair was up in a bun that was more mess than anything else, strands falling out around your face, no makeup. You were standing there at your door at five pm on a friday looking comfortable and real and so pretty it made his chest hurt. He knew he was down bad already. Had been since the game, since the party, since the moment you'd turned around in that park with a flower behind your ear that he'd picked for you except it hadn't actually been you, or maybe it had been, he didn't even know anymore. But looking at you now, in your actual dorm with your actual face and your actual voice saying his name like that, soft and a little worried, he realized the game version hadn't even come close. This was better because this was real.

"Well, yeah, I mean, technically no," he said. Then stopped. "I mean yes. I mean, I need to ask you something and I don't want to sound crazy but I'm probably going to sound crazy anyway so I don't know how to do this without sounding crazy."

Your expression shifted. Something in your eyes changed, like you knew exactly what he was going to say but didn't want to believe it. You stepped back and pulled the door open wider. "Come in."

Heeseung walked into your dorm and tried not to look around but he couldn't help it. The space was small but you'd made it yours, there was a Janna poster on the wall near your desk, the star guardian skin, same one you had on your phone case. Next to it was a persona 5 royal poster that looked like it had been put up carefully. Your Switch was sitting on your desk next to your laptop, the joy cons that soft pink and blue that came with the Animal Crossing edition. Your bed was unmade, blankets pushed to one side like you'd gotten up in a hurry. There were books stacked on your nightstand, a pair of headphones tangled on top of them. A stuffed cat that looked old and well loved sitting on your pillow. It was so much like the apartment in the game that Heeseung felt dizzy. The colors, the vibe, the way things were organized. But also different and better because it was lived in and messy in ways the game couldn't replicate. 

"Do you want water or something?" You were standing by your mini fridge, hand on the door, looking at him with that same careful expression.

And then Heeseung opened his mouth and everything just came out. 

"Jungwon gave me this game to test Called Girlfriend simulator and I thought it was stupid, like, the most desperate thing I could possibly do, like an actual certificate that I'm way too single for a guy my age. But I played it anyway because I can't say no to Jungwon and also because I was curious and I went on this date with this girl and she liked League of Legends and I had to pick this flower that was glowing and she loved it, and this firefly landed on her hand and she smiled at me like and then we played league together and destroyed her ex boyfriends, and we cooked pasta and she helped me because I was burning the garlic and the game kept giving me dialogue options but then I started just talking and it kept responding like it knew what I was going to say. And then things got really intimate, like really intimate, in ways I'm not going to describe because I'll die of embarrassment but you can probably guess what I mean. And the girl, she... she looked exactly like you. Not kind of like you, exactly like you. same face, same voice, same everything. and i talked to jungwon today And he said there's no adult content in the game, that he never programmed any of that, and that you played it too, last friday on the same night I did. And I think we were playing together and I think we were in the same game, in the same session or server or whatever, and I think the characters we were playing with weren't just game characters and I think they were each other. So I need you to tell me right now, does the boyfriend character in your game look like me?"

You were staring at him. Your hand was still on the mini fridge door but you weren't moving. Your face had gone from pale to flushed and your mouth was slightly open like you wanted to say something but couldn't figure out what. Heeseung's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat and his hands were shaking and he'd just word vomited the entire situation at you without taking a single breath but he couldn't take it back now. You closed the mini fridge. Didn't get water, just stood there looking at him like you were seeing him for the first time. Your eyes were moving across his face, his hair, his shoulders, like you were checking something or maybe confirming something.

"Yes," you said finally. Your voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

The word hung in the air between you. Heeseung felt something in his chest crack open, something between relief and panic and a feeling he didn't have a name for.

"Yes he looks like you," you continued, louder now. "Exactly like you and I thought I was going crazy and I thought Jungwon had somehow used photos of you without telling me, or that I was seeing patterns that weren't there, or that I'd just completely lost my mind. But it was you."

Heeseung took a step closer without meaning to. "You played it last friday."

"Yes."

"Around six thirty."

"Yes."

"And things got—" he stopped, couldn't say it.

"Intense." You finished for him. Your face was completely red now. 

"So it was real." Heeseung's voice sounded strange. "We were playing together. We were with each other and we didn't know it."

You were breathing faster now. He could see your chest rising and falling under your hoodie. "So when I— when we—"

"Yeah." The room got quiet after that. You looked at him and he looked back and there it was again, that pull from the game, except now there was no screen between you. Just him standing in your dorm with his messy hair and that hoodie you'd seen in the character creator, and you knowing exactly how his hands felt even though you'd never actually touched him before. Your breath caught. His did it too, you saw his chest hitch. Neither of you said anything, you both just moved, like someone had pressed play at the same time. He leaned in, you tilted up, and your mouths met in the middle.

You kissed at the same time.

His mind was racing: this is real, this is actually happening. No reset button, no save file, and he could not stop it even if he tried. Your lips were soft and moving against his in a way that made his hands come out of his pockets and find your waist, pulling you in a bit. You felt his fingers press into the fabric of your hoodie, and you responded by sliding your hands up to his shoulders, gripping the soft material there.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushed yours lightly, exploratory, and you leaned into it, your back arching off the mini fridge as he stepped closer, bodies pressing together now. A small sound escaped you, not a moan exactly, but something involuntary, and Heeseung reacted by tilting his head more, his hand moving up your back under the hoodie, fingers splaying against your skin, warm and calloused a little. His hands shook a little on your hips, and thank god there were no pop up flashing with options like "kiss deeper" or "pull away," and no dialogue tree to pick from. 

You broke for air just a second, foreheads touching, both of you breathing hard. "this is way better than the game," he muttered, voice low and rough, with a tiny grin pulling at his lips.

You huffed a laugh, your hands still on his shoulders. "Shut up." 

You pulled him back in before he could say anything else. This kiss was different, harder, more sure. Your teeth caught his bottom lip and he made a noise he'd be embarrassed about later. His hand came up to your face, thumb against your cheek. Your fingers tangled in his hair and tugged and he pressed you back against the fridge hard enough that the door rattled. He kissed down your jaw, taking his time, and you tilted your head to give him room. Your breathing was coming in short bursts. He got to your neck and stayed there, face buried against your skin, breathing you in. You made a sound that kinda sounded like a purr and that did something in him. In his head, he was scrambling, piecing together bits from the game, like the survey thing, where things got rough, when he knew you liked it rough. But now? No way, he wanted this slow, careful, the way you deserved. He slowed his kisses on your neck, his thumb tracing small circles on your side under the hoodie. Don't rush, idiot, his brain nagged, you're not on a timer here. 

He pulled back just a bit, forehead against yours, and said, "Sorry, this was kinda... out of nowhere."

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. "It wasn't."

He looked at your mouth, then back up to your eyes. "If this is weird for you though. With everything. I can stop."

"No." You said it fast, then quieter. "I want this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." you paused, then added quieter, "I haven't stopped thinking about it. Or… you. I can't stop thinking about you."

His brain glitched hard at that. wWait, she what? Holy shit, okay, don't screw this up. And he leaned in again, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him. He nipped at your lip, testing, as things heated back up, his pulse loud in his ears. You pushed him back gently, hands on his chest, guiding him across the room step by step until his back hit the wall with a soft thud. The kiss turned messy then, tongues clashing, breaths mixing in quick gasps, neither of you holding back anymore. Your lips moved to his jaw, nipping lightly, then down to his neck, sucking at the skin there.

He let out an uncontrolled whine, his hands tightening on your hips. That sound made you bolder, so you slipped one hand under his hoodie, fingers tracing the warm skin of his stomach, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. You pulled back up to kiss him again, fast and urgent, teeth grazing his lip. He bent his knees a bit, hands sliding down to your thighs, and lifted you up in one smooth motion. Your legs wrapped around his torso automatically, and he spun you around, pressing your back against the wall now. No action option popped up in his head, no prompt telling him what to do next — he'd done it all on instinct, and that made a quick flash of pride hit him, like he was finally off script, just going with it.

Between kisses, you murmured against his mouth, "Hee, you feel so good."

"You too, god" he breathed back, voice rough. He pressed in closer, his body flush against yours, the bulge in his pants obvious now between your legs. You let out a quiet moan, your head tipping back against the wall. He kept you pinned there against the wall, his hips rolling slow against yours in a rhythm that matched your breaths, each grind pulling a small gasp from you. His hands slid up under your hoodie, fingers spreading wide over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra as he kissed you deeper, tongue sweeping in like he couldn't get enough. You arched into his touch and nipped at his earlobe, then soothed it with your tongue. He shivered, a low groan escaping him, and you felt him harden more against you, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

He lowered you slowly to the floor, knees bending as he guided you toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. You tugged at his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one messy motion, his hair falling wild as it came off. His skin was warm, flushed, and you ran your hands over his chest, thumbs circling his nipples until they peaked under your touch. He laughed softly, a little breathless, as he peeled your hoodie off next, tossing it aside. His fingers traced the strap of your bra, slipping it down your shoulder before leaning in to kiss the exposed skin.

You pushed him back onto the bed, climbing onto his lap, your thighs straddling his as you ground down slowly, feeling his erection press right where you needed it. His hands gripped your hips, guiding the motion. As his fingers worked the clasp of your bra, letting it fall away, Heeseung's mind clicked into place: this was infinitely better than any simulator. In the game it was all presets, like surveys and options that guessed at what you liked, scripted responses that felt good but flat. Here, he could watch your reactions for real, feel the way your body tensed or relaxed under his hands, discover the spots that made you squirm without a pop up telling him what to do. No algorithms dictating the pace; just trial and error, his lips on your skin, learning from every shiver, every moan. Why settle for a program when he could map you out himself, piece by piece?

Things picked up then, his mouth closing over one of your nipples, tongue flicking slow at first, then sucking harder when you arched into it, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Hee, yes— like that," you breathed, grinding down firmer, the wet heat between your legs soaking through against his sweatpants. He switched sides, hand cupping the other breast, thumb rolling over the peak. He helped you take your sweatpants off, and then his free hand slipped between you, fingers pressing over your clit through your panties, rubbing in tight circles that had you moaning louder, hips bucking. You reached down, palming him through his pants, feeling the outline of his cock twitch under your hand. "You're so hard already," you said, squeezing gently, watching his face contort. He thrust up into your touch, a whine slipping out as he pulled you in for another kiss, messy and deep. 

His fingers dipped under your waistband now, sliding through your slick folds, one dipping inside you slow, curling just right. "So wet, fuck," he whispered, adding another finger, pumping steadily as his thumb found your clit again. You rocked against his hand, breaths coming faster, and tugged at his sweatpants, freeing him enough to wrap your fingers around his length, stroking slow from base to tip, thumb swiping over the precum beading there. He bucked into your grip, groaning into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. "Keep going," he panted, fingers speeding up inside you, hitting that spot that made your toes curl.

You sped up your strokes, matching his rhythm, the slick sound of your hand on him mixing with the wet push of his fingers in you. He dropped his head to your shoulder, mouthing at your neck, teeth grazing skin as his free hand gripped your thigh hard enough to leave marks. You rolled your palm over the head on every upstroke, spreading the precum down his length, and he thrust into your fist harder, a low whine catching in his throat. His hips stuttered, thrusts into your hand getting erratic, and you felt him swell thicker against your palm. Suddenly he grabbed your wrist, stopping your movement, chest heaving. "I can't— fuck— I'll cum so fast like this."

"Yeah," you breathed, nodding quick, "Fuck, okay." He kissed you hard once more, then pulled his fingers out slow, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while looking right at you. You bit your lip, heat rushing lower. You shifted back a bit, still catching your breath. "You got a condom?"

"Oh shit," he muttered, eyes widening. He reached down to his sweatpants, still tangled around one thigh from your handjob. And dug into the pocket, fumbling for his wallet. You leaned in, kissing along his neck slow, tongue flicking the spot that made him shiver earlier, just to keep him distracted. He huffed as he finally pulled out the foil packet. He glanced at it, then chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. In the game you didn't need this shit — couldn't exactly knock up pixel pussy. 

He tore the packet open with his teeth, rolling it on quick but careful, hand stroking himself once to settle it. Then he nudged you back onto the bed, settling between your legs as you lay on your back. He kicked off the sweatpants fully, nearly tripping when they caught on his ankle, and you both grinned at the awkward shuffle. He hovered over you, one hand bracing by your head, the other guiding himself, tip brushing through your folds once, twice, coating in your wetness. "You okay?" he asked, voice low, eyes locked on yours.

"Yeah, fuck, please," you said, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed in slow, the head of his cock breaching you first, that initial stretch making him grit his teeth; tight, wet heat wrapping around him like a vice, slick from all the buildup, but still enough resistance that he had to ease forward inch by inch. His breath caught sharp in his throat, eyes squeezing shut for a second as the sensation hit him full force: warm walls fluttering around him, pulling him deeper, the condom dulling it just a bit but not enough to hide how perfectly you fit, how your body gave way but clung at the same time. He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush against yours, and stayed there, pulsing inside you, the fullness making his thighs tense.

This was miles better than the game. In the sim, it was all smooth, predictable friction, coded to feel good but always a step removed, like jacking off to a video. Here, though, buried deep in you, he felt every twitch, every squeeze of your cunt around his cock, the real heat radiating through him, the way your wetness coated him completely, Making each tiny shift send sparks up his spine. It was messy and raw, just the obscene reality of how soaked you were, how his balls pressed between your thighs, heavy and tight, begging for more. He started moving then, slow pulls back and thrusts in, the wet slap of skin filling the room as he found a rhythm. You arched up to meet him, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving red lines he could feel stinging already. "Fuck, you're taking me so well," he muttered, voice wrecked, as he snapped his hips harder once, watching your tits bounce with the impact. He leaned down, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise while he ground deep, cock dragging along your walls, hitting spots that made you clench tighter around him.

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him faster, and he obliged, thrusts turning rougher, the bed creaking under you both. He could hear the squelch each time he buried himself balls-deep, your pussy gripping him. "So fucking wet," he groaned against your skin, one hand sliding down to grab your ass, pulling you onto him harder. You moaned louder, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging as he pounded in, the angle shifting so his pubic bone ground against your clit with every thrust.

He flipped you over suddenly, hands on your hips yanking you up onto all fours, and slid back in from behind in one smooth push, deeper this way, his cock curving just right to make you gasp. He started railing you, skin slapping loud, his balls smacking against you with each brutal thrust. You pushed back against him, meeting every snap, your walls fluttering around him, milking him tighter. He reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy circles while he fucked you harder.

His mind flashed back to the game then, that kink survey popping up, how you'd picked options that leaned heavy into rough. He wondered if it carried over, if real you craved that edge too. Testing it, he drew back a hand and landed a smack on your ass, not too hard, just enough to sting and make the flesh jiggle under his palm. The sound cracked through the room, sharp over the wet slaps of his thrusts. You moaned low, pushing back harder against him, your pussy clenching tight around his cock like a reflex. That reaction lit him up — okay, she likes it — and he felt bolder, the dom side kicking in without overthinking. "Yeah, you take that so good," he groaned, rubbing the spot he smacked, soothing the heat before landing another, a bit firmer this time, watching your skin pink up. 

He kept pounding in, deep and steady, the angle letting him hit that spot inside you that made your knees buckle a little. Reaching forward, he grabbed your wrists, pulling your arms back and pinning them at the small of your back with one hand, your chest dropping lower to the mattress. It arched your ass higher, letting him drive deeper, his free hand gripping your hip hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. The restraint made everything tighter, your walls hugging his cock obscenely, slick dripping down his balls with each thrust. "Fuck, I can't take it anymore," he panted, voice breaking as he felt you flutter around him, the build-up coiling tight in his gut.

"Hee—close, I'm so close," you gasped, face pressed into the sheets, hips grinding back desperate now. He picked up the pace, thrusts turning frantic, skin slapping louder, his balls tightening as he railed you harder. "Come on, let go for me, you feel so good clenching like that," he muttered, leaning over you, breath hot on your back. The friction built fast, your moans turning high and broken, and he felt you shatter first, your pussy spasming hard around his cock, milking him in waves, wetness gushing out and coating his thighs. That pushed him over, his hips stuttering as he buried deep one last time, groaning loud as he came, pulsing inside you, the condom catching every thick spurt while your bodies locked together, shaking through it.

You both stayed like that for a minute, chests heaving, sweat cooling on your skin, the room thick with the smell of sex. He was still buried inside you, pulsing faintly with aftershocks, but he didn't want it to end yet. Slowly, he eased out, the condom slick and heavy as he tied it off and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. His hands loosened on your wrists, letting your arms fall forward as you collapsed onto your stomach with a soft groan. He leaned down, lips brushing the small of your back, tasting the salt there, then lower, kissing along the curve where your spine dipped. His teeth grazed the swell of your ass, biting just hard enough to make you twitch, then soothing it with his tongue. You pushed back slightly, thighs parting on instinct, and he took the invitation— hands spreading you open as he dragged his tongue slow from your asshole down to your entrance, lapping up the mess you'd both made. The taste hit him full: tangy, musky, mixed with the latex from the condom and your arousal, thick and real coating his tongue. He groaned into you, diving deeper, tongue pushing inside your pussy, curling to scoop out more, nose buried against you as he ate you out sloppy from behind.

Your hips started rocking back, muffled moans into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets. He kept going, alternating broad licks up your slit with flicks over your clit, then back to spearing his tongue inside, feeling your walls flutter again. His face was soaked now, chin dripping, lips swollen, as he sucked your clit into his mouth, humming low. You tensed hard, thighs shaking, and came again with a broken cry, pushing back against his face, wetness flooding his mouth as he licked you through it, not stopping until you sagged limp.

He pulled back finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but mostly just smearing it, face shiny and wrecked. He flipped you over gentle, onto your back, and just looked; your cheeks flushed deep red, hair stuck to your forehead, neck and thighs dotted with fresh bruises from his mouth and grip, chest rising fast. You looked completely fucked out, eyes half lidded, lips bitten raw. His gaze dropped to himself: cock half hard again already, hanging heavy, the used condom on the floor bloated with his load, cum visible through the latex. This was nothing like the game. There, everything reset clean, no mess, no lingering taste on his tongue, no actual bruises blooming on skin. Here, he could smell you on his face, feel the ache in his jaw from eating you out, see the evidence of how hard he'd fucked you. Way better. Infinitely better.

He crawled up beside you, collapsing half on top, one leg tangled with yours, hand resting on your stomach as you both caught your breath again. The air was still thick, sheets twisted around your ankles, and Heeseung shifted a little closer, propping his head on one hand to look at you. He picked up your hand, fingers tracing over your knuckles before bringing them to his lips, kissing each one slow, like he was checking they were real. "Hey," he said soft, "was is... good for you?"

You glanced away for a second, cheeks heating up again, then nodded. "Yeah. Really good." Your voice came out quieter than you meant, thumb brushing his wrist. He smiled small, relieved, and pressed another kiss to your fingertips. You swallowed, still coming down, and mumbled, "want some water?"

"Yeah I'll get it," he said quick, already pushing up. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, then paused mid step, one hand going to his lower back with a quiet "Ow—shit." He stretched a bit, wincing. Last time he'd moved like that was... well, in the game and pixels don't pull muscles. He huffed a laugh at himself and shuffled over to the mini fridge, the floor cool under his feet.

He grabbed two bottles, cracked one open for you first, and came back, sitting on the edge of the bed close enough that his knee bumped yours. You sat up a little, taking the water, and he reached out, fingers threading through your messy hair, smoothing it back gently while you drank. His touch was light, almost absent minded, but steady. You lowered the bottle and just looked at him— hair sticking up, lips swollen, a faint red mark on his neck from earlier. You let out a soft laugh, nose scrunching. he raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Hi."

"Hi," you said back, still smiling.

He tilted his head, thumb brushing your cheek. "You need to pee."

You snorted, covering your face with one hand. "Yes, I know." He didn't even hesitate, just slid his arms under you, one behind your back, the other under your knees, and lifted you up like you weighed nothing. You yelped quietly, arms looping around his neck on reflex. "Hee—"

"I got you," he muttered, carrying you across the room to the bathroom door, stepping carefully around the clothes scattered on the floor. He set you down gentle inside, kissed your forehead quick, and pulled the door almost shut behind you. "Take your time." You heard him flop back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, probably rubbing his back again, and couldn't help smiling to yourself in the mirror.

When you came back, he was sitting on the edge of your bed, boxers pulled on, knees apart, elbows resting on his thighs. He looked up as the bathroom door opened and gave you this small, lopsided smile, half awkward, half couldn't-hide-it-if-he-tried glad. His hair was still a mess, sticking up where your fingers had been, and he rubbed the back of his neck like he didn't know where to put his hands now. You walked over and sat next to him, close enough that your thighs touched, the mattress dipping a little under both of you.

For a second neither of you said anything, just the quiet hum of the mini fridge and the faint rustle of sheets when you shifted. He glanced at you sideways. "So... that happened."

You huffed a small laugh, pulling your knees up. "Yeah. It did."

He was quiet for a moment. "Was it—" he stopped, started again. "I don't want you to think that's why I came here. Or that I expected—"

"I know."

"Because we don't really know each other. Like, actually know each other. And I don't want you to feel like this was too much or—"

"Don't we though?"

He looked at you. "What?"

"Know each other." You tucked your hair behind your ear. "I lived all of it with you. In the game."

"Yeah but that wasn't—"

"The date in the park," you said. "You picked that flower for me. The one that was glowing.” Heeseung was very still now, watching you. "And we played League together," you continued. "Destroyed my exes, even though they don't even exist in real life. Also, you were so smug about it, kept emoting after every kill, I thought you were so cute. And then we cooked pasta at my place and you almost burned the garlic and I had to help you and we ended up just—" you stopped, smiled a little. "It felt easy and natural like I'd known you forever. And the dates after that. Like the arcade, that hiking trail." You were looking at your hands now. "And then the park again at night. You told me you were falling for me. I remember it all too well. It was the most real thing that's ever happened to me." You finally looked at him. "And when I met you at the party and realized you were an actual person, I freaked out. Because how was I supposed to deal with the fact that I'd already fallen for you before we'd even met?"

"You—" his voice cracked slightly. "You fell for me?"

"Yeah." You said it simple, like it was obvious. "In the game. I didn't know it was you, but I felt everything. And then when Jungwon texted me about the update, I couldn't — I had to play it again. I had to see you again, even if it was just in the game. I thought it was just the game being really immersive and really realistic and I didn't think you were actually there."

Heeseung let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I thought the same thing but I couldn't figure out what else it could be."

"And then we both avoided each other for a week." You laughed, dropping your head against his shoulder. "We're idiots."

"Complete idiots." He leaned his head against yours. "But like, in our defense, how were we supposed to know we were accidentally having virtual sex through a Nintendo Switch?"

You snorted, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Please never say that sentence again."

"Which part, the virtual sex or the Nintendo Switch?"

"Both. That whole thing."

He was grinning now. "But it happened."

"Ynfortunately yes."

"And it was—" he stopped.

"Really good," you finished.

He pulled back a little, just enough to look at you, his fingers sliding up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, thumb brushing your cheek. "Yeah. It was. But this way is better." You smiled, he did too. But then he paused, and said quieter, "We don't have to figure it all out right now, you know. The whole... what this means. But," he swallowed, hand dropping to lace with yours on the sheet. "If you want to. If you're down... I'd really like to try this for real. Like, dates that don't require a Switch cartridge. Real hiking and a real arcade. And the boring real stuff too."

You turned your hand over, squeezing his fingers. "Boring real stuff sounds good."

"Yeah?" His smile went soft, relieved, and he shifted closer, knee bumping yours. His free hand came up to your waist, pulling you gently until you were half in his lap, legs tangled again. He kissed you slow then, nothing rushed, just lips moving soft, his hand splaying warm on your back. You kissed back, fingers threading through the hair at his nape, tugging lightly when he deepened it a bit. He pulled away just enough to breathe, lips still grazing yours. "This okay?"

"More than okay," you murmured, chasing his mouth for another quick kiss. He smiled into it, then another, hand sliding up your spine, thumb tracing lazy lines. You broke apart for air, but stayed close, foreheads together. "So," you said, poking his chest. "First real date. You picking or me?"

"I owe you that glowing flower," he said, fingers playing with your hair. "But like, from an actual field this time."

You laughed softly, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Deal. But you're still helping with the garlic."

He groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow and pulling you with him so you landed half on his chest. "Fine. But no emoting when I burn it."

You settled there, ear over his heartbeat, his arms wrapping loose around you. "We'll see."

And you did see, because you saw him burn garlic three more times over the next month, and you emoted every single time, just to watch him get flustered and defensive about it. And the dates weren't like the game. There were no perfectly timed sunsets or fireflies that landed on cue. 

Your first real date was at a diner near campus at two in the afternoon because that's when you both had free time between classes. He ordered pancakes and you stole half of them. The syrup was too sweet and the coffee was burnt and it was perfect anyway. You went to an arcade on a Tuesday night because you both thought it would be funny and all the good machines were broken. Heeseung spent twenty bucks trying to win you a stuffed cat from the claw machine and failed every time, just like the game. You ended up buying one from the prize counter with your own money and he carried it around for the rest of the night looking mildly offended. The hiking trail he took you on wasn't the picturesque mountain path from the game. It was a local trail that was mostly flat and next to a highway. You could hear cars the entire time. He tripped over a root and almost took you down with him. But he held your hand the whole way and pointed out a bird he thought was cool, and when you sat on a bench to rest, he kissed you and it tasted like the granola bars you'd been sharing.

You learned things about him that the game had never shown you. That he was grumpy in the mornings and needed at least ten minutes of silence before he could form coherent sentences. That he had a specific way of organizing his desk and got stressed when things were out of place. That he laughed at his own jokes before he finished telling them and it was the most endearing thing you'd ever seen. Meanwhile, he learned that you talked to yourself when you were concentrating, narrating your own thoughts out loud without realizing it. That you had strong opinions about which anime openings were skippable and which were sacred. That you stress baked at midnight and would show up at his dorm at one am with cookies that were still warm and slightly misshapen.

You played League together and he actually did run it down once and you flamed him for fifteen minutes straight. He took you to his favorite boba place and you hated the drink you ordered but drank it anyway because you didn't want to admit you'd made a mistake. He noticed and switched cups with you without saying anything.

And the domestic stuff was better than any game could've captured: grocery shopping together and arguing about which brand of ramen to buy; him falling asleep on your shoulder during study sessions in the library; you stealing his hoodies and him pretending to be annoyed but leaving them at your place on purpose. The way he'd text you random memes at three am just because he thought you'd find them funny. The way you'd save the last bite of your food for him without thinking about it. It was real and messy and nothing like the perfect dates the game had generated. It was so much better.

Three months in, Jungwon decided he wanted to do a pizza night at his place. Make-your-own-pizza, he'd said. It'll be fun, he'd said. He'd assigned everyone tasks and you and Heeseung got stuck with grocery shopping because apparently you were the only ones who could be trusted not to forget something important. Which is how you ended up in the pasta sauce aisle of the grocery store on a Saturday afternoon, having an increasingly heated debate about pizza sauce. "This one has basil already in it," Heeseung said, holding up a jar.

"But that one's too sweet. We need the plain one so we can add our own seasonings." You grabbed a different jar.

"Nobody's going to taste the difference."

"I'm going to taste the difference!"

"Yeah, that's because ou have the most specific opinions about things that don't matter."

"Excuse me, pizza sauce matters. This is important." He looked at you, standing there in your hoodie and jeans with your hair falling out of your bun, holding a jar of pasta sauce like it was a matter of life and death, and he felt something in his chest shift. You'd been arguing about groceries for ten minutes. Before that it had been flour — he'd grabbed all purpose and you'd insisted on bread flour even though Jungwon probably wouldn't care. You had strong opinions about olive oil brands. You'd spent five minutes reading the labels on different types of cheese. It was so mundane and domestic and real and he was so gone for you it was ridiculous.

Heeseung caught your wrist and pulled you back. You turned, surprised, the jar of sauce still in your hand. "What?" He just looked at you for a second. The fluorescent grocery store lighting was terrible and someone's kid was screaming two aisles over and the store radio was playing a compressed version of some pop song from five years ago. Nothing about this moment was romantic or special or anything like the game would've generated.

"You know," he said, "if this was a cooking game, you'd be picking all the wrong action options right now."

You laughed. "What?"

"The wrong sauce. Insisting on fresh garlic when the jarred stuff is right there. Making this way more complicated than it needs to be." He was smiling now, pulling you closer. "You'd be failing the efficiency route."

"Good thing this isn't a game then."

"Yeah." His other hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Good thing." You were looking at him with this soft expression, waiting for whatever he was going to say, and Heeseung realized he'd been waiting for the perfect moment for weeks now. The right time, the right place, the right words. But standing in a grocery store on a random Saturday arguing about pizza sauce felt more right than any perfectly rendered sunset could've been. "I love you," he said.

You went very still. "What?"

"I love you." He said it again, steadier this time. "And I want to finally beat fuck ass Girlfriend Simulator. Make it official."

"Heeseung—"

"I want to complete the Girlfriend Simulator route," he continued, and he was grinning now because he could see you trying not to smile. "Get the good ending. Unlock the girlfriend achievement."

You laughed. "You're such a nerd."

"Yeah, I know. so?" He squeezed your hand. "Will you be my girlfriend? For real this time?"

You set the jar of sauce down on the nearest shelf, not even checking if it was the right spot, and kissed him. Right there in the middle of the grocery store with terrible lighting and screaming children and elevator music playing overhead. His arms came around you and you could feel him smiling against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots. "Yes," you said. "Obviously yes.” 

And you kissed him. His arms came around you and you could feel him smiling against your mouth. You pulled back just a little, hands sliding up to rest on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. The kiss turned slower then, softer, your lips brushing his again and again like you couldn't quite stop. He made this quiet hum, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the skin there while the other stayed firm on your waist, keeping you close. Some lady pushed her cart past you both, wheels squeaking on the linoleum, but neither of you moved.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads still touching, you were both breathing a little harder. "I love you too," you said, voice low but steady. "Obviously. And I'm really glad I beat Boyfriend Simulator."

He laughed soft, nose bumping yours. "Wait." His face went serious all of a sudden, eyes narrowing. "That was the name of your game? Boyfriend Simulator?"

"Yeah." You bit your lip, trying not to grin too big. "Jungwon said it was different from Girlfriend Simulator because this one has a multiplayer option."

He shook his head slow, arms still around you, holding you there in the aisle like he wasn't planning on letting go anytime soon. You both just stood there, wrapped up in each other between the shelves of pasta sauce, carts rumbling by, some kid yelling about cereal in the distance. Heeseung stared at you, processing, then let out this quiet groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "I'm going to kill Yang Jungwon."

You laughed into his hair, fingers threading through it at the nape of his neck. "Get in line."

[GAME COMPLETE] GOOD ENDING UNLOCKED: REAL LIFE ROUTE ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: GIRLFRIEND.EXE NEW GAME+ AVAILABLE: THE REST OF YOUR LIVES

taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova @izzyy-stuff  @gh9sty @xoenhalover @bambiens @hoonsocks @jaeyunflix @yvampyr @wonmuse

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[ikeuriuu]

How it feels reading a fic and suddenly yn is actually a bitch for no actual reason and not a well written character, with w hint of racism in it

[ikeuriuu]

GDA VOTING FOR ENHYPEN!

I am urging everyone to help us in voting. The Golden Disc Award show equates to GRAMMYS in South Korea. It is very easy to vote.

🌐 global.prizm.co.kr/story/gda25

🗓️ Voting ends on JAN 5 AT 12PM KST

HOW TO VOTE?

1. Go to global.prizm.co.kr/story/gda25

2. Tap the ≡ menu and select Sign In

3. Enter the email you want to register and complete the “not a robot” verification

4. You’ll receive an email with a verification code and 2FA details (Check spam/promotions folder)

5. Go back to the site and enter the verification code. Agree to all terms and conditions

6. Download the Authenticator app (I suggest Google)

7. Open the email you received again

8. Enter the code name as the “Account Name” and the Secret Key in the “Your Key” field in the Authenticator app

9. Tap Add, and the app will generate a code

10. Go back to the site and enter the generated code to finish and start voting

[ikeuriuu]

BUMPING THIS UP !!! PLEASE HELP US WE NEED EVERY SINGLE VOTES i can teach the methods how to vote and simply a lot for just 1 email.

[mssishipi]

[ikeuriuu]

GDA VOTING FOR ENHYPEN!

I am urging everyone to help us in voting. The Golden Disc Award show equates to GRAMMYS in South Korea. It is very easy to vote.

🌐 global.prizm.co.kr/story/gda25

🗓️ Voting ends on JAN 5 AT 12PM KST

HOW TO VOTE?

1. Go to global.prizm.co.kr/story/gda25

2. Tap the ≡ menu and select Sign In

3. Enter the email you want to register and complete the “not a robot” verification

4. You’ll receive an email with a verification code and 2FA details (Check spam/promotions folder)

5. Go back to the site and enter the verification code. Agree to all terms and conditions

6. Download the Authenticator app (I suggest Google)

7. Open the email you received again

8. Enter the code name as the “Account Name” and the Secret Key in the “Your Key” field in the Authenticator app

9. Tap Add, and the app will generate a code

10. Go back to the site and enter the generated code to finish and start voting