👹 yeah use your nails 💅 on my chest 🤽🏻♂️ you grab 🦀 me digging your 🦀 nails 💅 in yeah fuck 😮💨 look i can’t wait ⏸️any longer ⏰ 🥵 👖 😩 🪑ah fuck 😮💨 fuck iris 😩👹 👩❤️💋👨👩❤️💋👨 🥵💦 😩 i🏋🏼♂️ try to keep it together 🙏🏼but already i felt 🧠like some kind of 🐅animal 🦍 👹🥵💦👩❤️💋👨 no no 👹 keep your 👁️eyes👁️ on me 👨🍳ah eyes 👁️on me👨🍳 👏🏼🪑👏🏼that’s good 👍🏼🥵 good girl👍🧍♀️👹🥵👏🏼💦👏🏼 i held your 💪🏼arms 💪🏼above ⬆️your head 🙆♀️👏🏼🪑👏🏼🪑👏🏼 you 🧍♀️moaned 😩my name 👨🍳as i kissed💋your neck 👔 😮💨 tell me you’re mine 🫵🏼 👹👏🏼👏🏼 😮💨 say it 👏🏼💦🪑👏🏼 💦 say it! 👹 🥵🥵👏🏼💦👏🏼👏🏼💦🪑🥵💦👏🏼 i lifted your 🦵🏼legs 🦵🏼over my 🤷♂️shoulders so i could🥵 get ⬇️deeper 🕳️⬇️⬇️⬇️ 😩 👩❤️💋👨 👩❤️💋👨 i 👨🍳wanted to feel🤲🏼 every inch 📏of you 🪑💥👹👩❤️💋👨💦👏🏼🪑👹 😩🥵😫👩❤️💋👨🪑👏🏼💥💦👏🏼💦👩❤️💋👨 oh god 💥👏🏼💦😩 i’m gonna cum 🪑💥🥵😩💦 iris i’m gonna cum 💦👏🏼🪑🥵😩 oh fuck oh fuck! 👏🏼💥🪑💥🥵💦😩👏🏼 oh god! 💦🥵💥👏🏼🪑you’re doin so good 🫵🏼👍💥🥵😩💦👏🏼👏🏼😩😩😩😩💦👏🏼🥵😩 👹💦🥵👹💦💦💦😮💨
⊹₊ ˚‧₊୨ SOLACE Part IV – A Letter for Two Men ୧₊‧ ˚₊⊹ — Ryomen Sukuna
۶ৎ It’s 1946. The war is over. The city is learning to breathe again — but you are not. Nanami Kento, your husband, was buried in a common grave for heroes. A final telegram, a forgotten medal on the dresser, and a bloodstained letter were all that remained of him. Since then, you’ve lived in a house that feels far too big for one woman, and a bed that weighs like stone without his body beside you.
You spend your days writing letters that will never be read, listening to the neighbors rebuild their lives, smelling the coffee without feeling hunger. Loneliness is a cruel but constant companion. Until the union’s accountant — a man named Ryomen Sukuna — begins to show up more often than necessary.
He’s rough, ill-tempered, and smells of smoke and old paperwork. But there’s something in his eyes… something that sees you without pity, yet without condescension. A man marked by the war in another way. A man who also lost, but never speaks of it.
wc. 4.8k+
tw. grief and bereavement, moving on, emotional healing, internal monologue, pining, slow burn, domestic intimacy, mild sexual tension, brief nudity, use of alcohol.
The morning begins without haste. You wake before the sun, not out of anxiety, but because insomnia was kind this time. It merely breathed softly on your neck and gave you time. Time to feel your own body stretched across the bed like a newly discovered territory. A body that breathes, pulses, remembers. You get up. The wood creaks with familiarity under your bare feet, as if saying: we are still here.
The house is cold, but not hostile. You put on the thick coat — the one that smells of closets and old memories — and light the stove. While the water heats, you take the lined paper from the desk drawer. The inkwell. The pen. It is the same ritual as always. But today, there is no hesitation. Today, you know what you are going to write.
You write to him. To Nanami.
But not like before. Not with pleas. Not with questions. Not with the insatiable need to make the absence hurt less. Today you write with the melancholy peace of one who accepts that loving isn't holding on — it’s letting go. The pen glides with a new fluidity. The words don’t ask for permission. They flow. Like tears that no longer sting.
“Love of mine,
Today, for the first time, I thought of you without falling apart. I thought of you as one looks at a photograph that time has yellowed, but not erased. I thought of the way you folded your uniform sleeves, with a gesture that was almost elegant. And I didn't cry.
You are still the sweetest shadow of my body. But there is a new breeze coming through the window. And I want to learn to let it touch my face. Perhaps it isn't betrayal. Perhaps it’s survival.
And even so, I love you. I will always love you”
You don’t sign it. You just fold the letter in half and leave it on the kitchen table. You don’t put it in the box. You don’t seal it in an envelope. You leave it there, open like a chest that no longer fears bleeding again.
It’s Tuesday. Sukuna arrives as usual. With his decisive steps, his coat half-closed, his hair disheveled by the wind. He brings a bag with bread. An orange and a newspaper. He enters without knocking — but only because you already left the door ajar. He doesn’t speak immediately. He just watches you in silence while you serve the tea.
Then his eyes find the letter. He doesn’t ask. You don’t say anything either. But your eyes don't look away when he reaches out, picks up the paper, and reads it. Standing there, in the middle of the kitchen. His large frame still like a tree listening to the wind. His hands holding the sheet with uncommon care.
You watch him read. And, for the first time, you are not ashamed of your pain. It is there, naked, written. And he reads it in full. When he finishes, he folds the letter slowly, without haste, as if the paper held heat.
“He was a good man,” he says. His voice is hoarse. Low. Making no effort to sound gentle. But with a sincerity that overflows.
You nod. And then he walks up to you. The ground seems too small for his footsteps. The air feels suspended. And when he stops in front of you, there is a pause. An infinite second where there is only silence. And the pulse in your neck.
The kiss doesn't happen like in the novels. It doesn't come with anxious hands, nor with urgency. It comes with respect. With the weight of the recent reading. With the salt of time between you. He presses his forehead against yours and takes a deep breath. You catch his scent — the smell of warm bread, of the streets, of something you cannot yet name. Then, he kisses you again.
There are no promises. No declarations. His lips touch yours firmly, yet without force. He kisses like someone recognizing a scar. Like someone tracing a crack with their fingers and saying: I know this hurts. You don't close your eyes. You feel it. With every pore. Every cell. Every memory. The kiss doesn't erase Nanami. It only confirms that you still have a body. You still feel. You still want to live.
When he pulls away, his eyes ask for nothing. They only wait. You say nothing. But you don't pull back.
That night, Sukuna doesn't stay. He picks up the bag, settles his coat over his shoulders, and says: “If you want to throw it away, do it. I won't be upset.” You don’t know if he means the bread or the kiss. You just nod. Without smiling. Without crying.
He leaves. And you close the door slowly. The house feels fuller. Quieter, too. You take the letter and look at it one last time. Then, instead of tucking it away, you pin it to the fridge with a magnet. You leave it in plain sight. As if telling yourself: “You can love two men. In different ways. Without having to die for it.”
You turn on the kitchen light and prepare two cups of tea. One of them, for the first time, waits for someone — not from the past, but from the here and now.
In the days that follow, you live in suspense. Like a droplet clinging to the edge of the roof before the fall. Like a candle burning slowly, unhurried, not knowing if it wants to illuminate or simply vanish. There are no major events. But the world within, that one is seething.
You wake up more slowly. Your body still holds the memory of the kiss like a stain on a garment that won't easily wash out. It isn't desire yet — it’s deeper, less urgent. It's as if your skin recognized in him some truth that your heart still fears to name.
You think of Nanami. But now he comes in brief flashes. No longer as a wound, but as a memory: his hands peeling potatoes, the sound of the newspaper being folded, the way he would say “shhh” while reading beside you. You think of him and you don't cry. But you don't smile either. You just feel. With that warm knot between your stomach and your chest.
Sukuna doesn't return right away.
Two days pass. You wait in silence. You pretend not to look out the window, but you listen to every footstep outside with a precision that’s almost frightening.
On the third morning, the door creaks. You are washing dishes. The sound of the water hides his footsteps. It’s only when he clears his throat — that dry, almost impatient sound — that you turn around.
He is there. With bread again. And a folded newspaper. Without saying a word, as if yesterday had never happened. Or as if it had happened many years ago.
You wonder if he will try again. To kiss you. To talk about feelings. But he only places the bread on the table and says: “You left the door open. You’ll get sick.” You swallow your reply.
He sits down and opens the newspaper. And you, you keep washing the plates. For long minutes, the kitchen is made only of everyday noises: glass clinking against ceramic, steam rising from the kettle, pages being turned by rough fingers.
Sukuna reads in a low voice. He comments on a new tax. You respond with a nod. The kiss hangs in the air, but neither of you mentions it. It’s there. Like a cracked vase that no one dares to touch.
On Wednesday, he returns. And on Thursday. And on Saturday. But he never mentions what happened again. He never touches you. Never looks too long. And this — this absence of expectation — is what disarms you.
You begin to sit with him on the porch. He reads. You knit. Sometimes he talks about the office — about a client who lied about figures, about a confusion with receipts. You respond with short sentences.
But you start to laugh. The first time you laugh, it’s with surprise. Sukuna spills a bit of coffee on the newspaper and curses under his breath. You let out a dry, quick laugh, like someone stumbling upon a forgotten sound.
He looks at you. But he doesn’t smile. He just raises an eyebrow, like someone making a mental note: she still knows how to laugh.
The nights remain long. You lie down alone, but feeling less cold.
The letter on the fridge remains. You reread it once, then never again. Not because you forgot. But because now it lives in another place within you — no longer on the page, but in the small gestures of daily life: in the flowers you change in the vase, in the new tablecloth you spread, in the bread you cut into slices even if no one is coming.
You start to cook with more care. Not for him. Not yet. But because the act of preparing something warm for yourself stops feeling like vanity. It becomes a gesture of tenderness.
On Sunday, Sukuna brings peaches. He says they were “leftovers,” as always. You accept without answering. But this time, you cut one. You divide it into two plates. You hand one half to him.
He hesitates, as if the gesture were a challenge. But he eats. You both chew in silence. Juice drips from the corner of his mouth. You hand him a dish towel. He wipes it away slowly.
On one of these days, you dream of Nanami. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, as he used to do before putting on his shoes. He looks at you with weary tenderness. He says nothing. He only reaches out and touches your face. You wake with damp eyes. But you don't cry. Because, in that dream, he smiled. And there was something in that smile. Something like permission.
You get up. The floor no longer feels so cold. The house still creaks, but now you answer the sound with your feet. The kettle sings. The bread is fresh. You look at the extra cup on the table. And you smile. Not out of hope, but out of acceptance. It isn't love yet. Not like before. But it is… presence. And sometimes, that is what saves.
The days announce no changes. There are no milestones, no solemn new beginnings. Only life happening within, like water trickling through old cracks, in silence. His presence — Sukuna’s — settles in like the smell of old coffee in a grandmother’s house: non-intrusive, yet persistent.
Now he arrives without knocking. Or rather — he knocks once, sharply, and enters before the answer. He leaves his shoes at the door. He always carries something: bread, fruit, a coat forgotten from last winter. Sometimes a clumsy excuse: "The electric bill is looking strange" or "the city sent a new declaration form." You stop pretending to be surprised. And he stops justifying his presence. Intimacy grows in the gap between resistance and habit.
One day, he finds the kettle lid loose. Without a word, he adjusts it. Another day, he straightens the hallway rug you’re always tripping over. The following Tuesday, he changes the bathroom lightbulb — without asking for a ladder, without announcing it. You observe all of this with eyes that no longer judge. It isn't affection. It is constancy. It is the kind of kindness he doesn’t name himself.
You realize you’ve started cooking for two. Not because you expect him, but because it simply is. Your body has grown accustomed to cutting two slices of bread. To sweetening the tea just a little less bitter. To leaving the napkin folded at the left side of the table.
The first time he notices, he says: "Are you using cloves?" You nod, shoulders tense, ready for a mockery. But he chews slowly and only adds: "It’s good. Nanami liked cloves, didn't he?" You freeze. Not at the memory, but because he said the name. Without fear, without weight. As if he knew that avoiding it is more painful than touching it. You only reply, voice low: "He did." Sukuna asks no more. But he eats everything.
The touches don't return immediately. They rehearse. On the fourth day in a row that he appears with his shirt open at the wrist — a torn button — you grow silently irritated. You take needle and thread from the drawer. You sit on the porch threshold. He watches while you sew, eyes downcast. Your fingers lingering on the stitches. When you finish, you don't hand it to him. You just stand up and hang the shirt on the back of the chair. He only says: “Strong stitching.” And doesn't thank you. But the next day, he wears the shirt.
One gesture in particular comes without thought. You are folding the laundry you took from the line. He appears behind you, says something you don’t catch — you are immersed in the sound of the breeze, the lukewarm late-afternoon heat. When you turn your head, by accident, his hand brushes against your waist. Just a touch. Almost weightless. But it’s as if the world made the sound of tearing paper.
You hold your breath. He pulls back. His hands stiff, guilty of something they don’t know if they committed. "Sorry," he says. Sincere, for the first time. You nod, wordless. But you don't move away.
Night falls. You put the rice on the stove. He chops vegetables with your kitchen’s dull knife, complaining under his breath. When you serve both plates, he eats slowly. You observe the line of his neck, his unshaven beard, the eyes that, sometimes, linger too long on your fingers.You say: "You have big hands." He looks up. He doesn’t answer. But he smiles, in that crooked way, more astonishment than kindness.
"Yeah. They’re good for nothing but signing papers."
You take a risk: "And for touching." He looks at you. Lingering. But he does nothing. Neither do you. And it is this almost that pulses.
The touches return as if the body had dreamed them before. On a damp morning, you sneeze. He hands you a handkerchief. But he holds your hand for a second longer. On a Friday, it rains hard. He gets stuck at your house. You share the sofa. You fall asleep with your head against his side, both of you pretending not to notice. In the middle of the night, his hand lightly touches the nape of your neck. It seeks nothing. It only rests. And you let it. Because now, there is room for this.
You still dream of Nanami. But sometimes, when you wake, you no longer feel the immediate void. You feel guilt, yes. But smaller. Quieter. As if, from wherever he is, he had stepped back just a little to make space.
You start taking care of the house. Not out of obligation. But out of desire. You put out flowers — small, dried ones, in old bottles. You make the bed with clean sheets. You leave the window open for the air to come in. Sukuna notices. He doesn't comment. But one day, he arrives with a new soap. He says he received it as a gift, that he hates sweet scents. You understand the gesture. And you use it that same day.
Now, when he leaves, you feel it. Not as a loss. But as a pause that needs to end soon. And when he returns — and he always returns — you open the door before he knocks. As if you were already waiting for him. And deep down, you truly are. But you still don't say it. Because there is something beautiful in not rushing what blooms after winter.
Sometimes, time doesn't warn you when something changes. It doesn't bend with a snap; it doesn't break in two. It stretches, imperceptibly, like a held breath that suddenly becomes a sigh. Intimacy doesn't explode — it seeps in. And that is where you find yourself now: at the warm edges of a gesture that doesn't know where it begins or where it ends.
His touch comes on an ordinary night, in a way that seems weightless. You are in the kitchen, lights out, only the dim glow of the lamp over the fridge. It’s raining lightly — the small sound of droplets feels like part of the house. You are washing dishes, your fingers submerged in warm water.
He approaches from behind. "Let me, I’ll dry.”
You hand him the plate. But as you turn, his hand touches your waist. Not by accident. Not out of necessity. But out of permanence. The palm is warm, firm, resting there, in the curve of your body where there is space. Where there was still silence.
You don’t react. Or rather — you breathe. Deeply. As if the air needed more time to enter. The touch remains. For too many seconds. Only then does he pull away. But something stayed behind. Like when the sun hits a specific spot on your skin and, even after it leaves, it leaves warmth.
Your body, once rigid in its memory, begins to remember itself. You return to caring for your skin. You rub moisturizer onto your arms with more leisure, on your knees, on your belly. Not out of vanity — but out of tenderness. You begin to notice the touch of fabrics. The wool lightly scratching the skin of your wrists. The worn cotton of the sheet, the smell of the soap he brought, which still lives in the folds of the pillow.
One night, you realize: it’s cold. And without thinking, you grab his coat hanging on the chair. It’s wide, heavy, a bit rough at the elbows. But it envelops you. And when he arrives later, he finds you wearing it. He doesn’t comment. But his eyes linger. And you feel it — there is something in the way he sees you now. As if his body wanted to draw closer to yours but was still asking for permission.
The touches repeat. One day, his hand holds your wrist to remove a splinter. Another, you rest your head on his shoulder out of exhaustion, and he doesn't move. Moments begin to happen where your bodies cross in the kitchen — and no one retreats. Hips touch. Arms brush. Fingers graze the edge of the sink. The tension doesn’t grow. It isn’t urgent desire. It is just this need for physical presence manifested as proximity. Like heat that needs to touch skin to fully exist.
One afternoon, you are cleaning the window panes. Your hair falls into your face, water drips down your forearm. He arrives without saying a word, watching the curve of your neck exposed to the sun. He walks up to you. He raises his hand. And with his fingers, he brushes a wet strand of hair from your face.
You don’t close your eyes. You only feel. His fingertips are warm. Rough. But hesitant. The touch stays longer than necessary. And when he lowers his hand, something has changed. Because for the first time, his body asked. And yours said yes.
Later, you share a piece of cake. Sitting side by side on the back steps. The sky is reddish, as if the world were ready to dissolve into light. He holds the plate. You hold the cup. You share the same napkin. And at some point, his fingers rest upon yours — not by accident. A small gesture. But a whole one. He doesn't look into your eyes. Neither do you. But the touch remains. Firm. Warm. Like someone who no longer fears staying.
It is at night that the body begins to yield. You start sleeping with the bedroom door ajar. Not because you are waiting. But because you no longer fear being seen. And on some random dawn, he gets up to drink water. You hear the footsteps. The door creaks slightly. And for a second, he stops there. In the doorway.
You are awake. Lying on your side, the sheet folded down to your hip, your nightgown clinging slightly to your chest. You don’t move. Neither does he. Time stretches between you. Long. Full of unspoken things. And then, he closes the door slowly. You hear the footsteps walking away.
But something stayed in the air. Warm. Waiting.
In the following days, the gestures become more intimate. He begins to observe you with different eyes. Not of pure desire — but of recognition. Like someone seeing a field bloom again after a long winter. You notice it. And you accept it. Without fear, without haste. Because now the skin knows. That loving is not replacing. It is opening space where there was still pain. It is allowing a new touch to find a home where before only the echo of absence lived.
And then, on a cloudless morning, when he places his hand on your knee — lightly, while drinking coffee — you don’t pull back. You cover his hand with yours. Slowly. Like someone touching an animal that might still flee. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. But the silence between you… it doesn’t hurt anymore.
Now, it is home.
There is no set date for when the body decides to stay. For when longing settles and yields to a touch that does not wound. But on a night when the house was dark and the wind sang through the cracks in the windows, you knew: you were ready to feel, and not get hurt.
He arrived after eight. His shirt open at the neck, the scent of rain and the streets on his shoulders. You were already in your nightgown — thin, old, a fabric that flowed like water over your skin. It wasn't seduction. It was just what you wore when you were alone with yourself. But that night, you weren't.
He entered as he always did: without knocking, without announcing. And something in you held firm. You didn't flinch, didn't cover yourself, didn't apologize for your exposed skin. You just remained.
“I brought wine,” he said, his voice deep, low, almost gentle. As if he knew.
You drank in silence, knees almost touching on the old sofa. The yellow glow of the lamp made your skin look like amber, golden in the shadows. The light rain tapping on the roof tiles gave rhythm to the stillness. Until he rested his hand on yours. This time, you didn't just allow it. You intertwined your fingers. And he understood.
The kiss came like everything that mattered in that house: without haste. He looked at you first, his red eyes not filled with passion — but with an old weariness, like someone who never learned how to ask. You reached out to his face. You touched the scar under his right eyebrow. And he closed his eyes like someone receiving a wordless forgiveness.
His lips touched yours. Dry, warm, firm. But restrained. They didn't invade — they tested the space. And you gave in. Slowly. Your mouth opening like a petal dampened by the night. The taste was salt, wine, and everything you thought you’d never have again. But it wasn't forgetting — it was another memory beginning.
Clothes came off without violence. Without urgency. His shirt slipped off his broad shoulders, revealing skin stained by the sun, marked, rough. You touched it as if touching ancient wood — with reverence. The cold was no longer an annoyance; now it was fuel. Forcing your body against his in search of heat, of the burning skin beneath your palms.
Sukuna feels it. He breathes deeply at the low whimper that escapes your lips as you feel his hand slide down your torso with calculated calm, moving up to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers in your hair as if he’d found exactly where he likes to stay. He pulls lightly — not to take, but to guide. The kiss tilts. The breath fits.
The rhythm changes. It’s not haste. It’s that slow, enveloping beat that grows without you realizing it. The kind of intensity that starts in the shoulders and ends in the knees. Your mouth responds to his with more boldness now. You bite, you tease, you test. He lets out a low sound, almost a husky laugh in response to your petulance, and deepens the kiss as if saying without words: is this how you want it?
His free hand slides down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip over the thin fabric of the nightgown. He squeezes slowly, firm enough to make you lose your breath for a second. Your body reacts before your head does. You move. And in that movement — half clumsy, half completely surrendered — your knee bumps the coffee table.
The glass falls. The sound of it hitting the floor echoes through the room — luckily, it doesn't break. It just rolls, spilling the rest of the wine across the worn rug. You both freeze for a second. And then you start laughing against his mouth.
A loose, warm laugh. A bit tipsy — not just from the wine, but from the kiss. He is still holding the back of your neck when you try to look down, as if you were going to apologize to the entire room for existing that way.
“What a disaster,” you murmur, still laughing.
Sukuna pulls his face back just enough to look at you. And he stops. His red eyes roam over your face lit by the yellow light, your hair messed up by his fingers, your swollen lips, your free and guiltless smile. There is wine staining the rug, there is rain tapping outside — but he only sees you. He lets out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh.
“I’ve never seen anyone spill wine with such grace.”
His voice is deep, low, with that underlying provocation he doesn't try to hide. But the look… the look is something else. It is surrender. It is patience. As if he could stay there all night just watching you exist. You feel the heat rise up your neck.
He takes advantage of the distraction to pull you back. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, turning you slightly until your back rests against the edge of the table. The spilled wine is already a forgotten detail. The kiss restarts slower. Deeper. His tongue finds yours with an almost lazy confidence, as if he knows you won’t run. His hand moves up your body again, exploring, feeling your skin’s reaction under the thin fabric. He squeezes your waist and then softens the touch, his thumb distractedly tracing circles.
You are half dizzy. Half laughing. Half sighing. And completely surrendered. Your hand slides across his chest, over his broad back, feeling the muscle tense when you scratch lightly. He tilts his head, biting your lower lip before letting go slowly. A rogue. But careful. Always attentive to your breath, to the way your body responds.
“Look at you… fucking perfect," he murmurs against your mouth.
The way he holds your face between his large hands says everything. As if you were something too precious to be treated with haste. As if he were holding back by choice — not for lack of desire. You pull his shirt, which is already fallen on the floor, bringing your body even closer, your legs fitting together naturally. He reacts by pressing his hip against yours, firm, but without advancing beyond what you give.
The rhythm keeps growing slowly. You both laugh again between soft kisses. Your body feels heavier when you try to get up from his lap to hurry and clean the mess. But he is quick to catch your waist, pulling you back against him.
“Stay still," he says, but there is tenderness in the command. And you obey. Because you like the way he leads. The way his hands always seem to know where to land. As if he were learning to read you, without haste — but with hunger.
His mouth moves down your jawline, returns to your lips, alternating between slow kisses and more intense ones, like waves that come and recede only to hit again with more force. His breath is already heavy, hot against your skin. But he doesn't cross the line. He prolongs it. He savors it. His hand holds your chin lightly, tilting your face so he can look at you again. And what is there isn't just desire.
It is raw admiration. As if he had never seen a woman as beautiful as you, laughing in the middle of the chaos, with spilled wine at her feet and lips red from so much kissing. He presses his forehead against yours, takes a deep breath, and whispers, almost amused:
“You’re going to be the end of me.”
And then he kisses you again — slow, warm, patient — as if he had the whole night to discover exactly how far you both want to go.
So long story short of what happened to my main account Actually Valerie here. Art I've posted triggered algorithms, probably I've made a mistake in proper censorship so account was permanently closed.
What I miss the most is people I've met there, my clients, fanfics and taglists I've been with. So please. If you find me and we were mutuals or you were my client, let me know!
If you could share this artwork, it would mean the world to me—I’m trying to find my community again
Also I will be sharing slowly my old arts, in case if some of you loved them and wanted to keep.
I love y'all and I miss y'all so much ♥
Now that my heart feels Nanami sent Sukuna to her intentionally, I can’t unthink the raw comfort she’ll feel the day Sukuna swallows his pride and holds her. He may be a broken soldier but he’s a solid man. Kento was good too, don’t get me wrong but Sukuna seems so good for her in her broken moments and healing moments. Kinda like how the sails on a ship won’t hide the sailors from the storm, but they’ll help the boat to navigate the winds and continue to flow freely when everything settles. You write Sukuna so beautifully and poetic. He’s just depicted so raw, gorgeously rough around the edges in an enigmatic way. I love it
Your words truly touched me 💕 the way you see Sukuna means so much, because I always try to write him with that raw steadiness — flawed, scarred, yet solid in the moments that matter most. Knowing that came through to you fills me with so much warmth. It’s exactly in those broken and healing spaces that I feel their bond grows strongest. Thank you for sharing such a heartfelt response, it reminded me why I love writing this story so much 🥹🫶
⊹₊ ˚‧₊୨ SOLACE Part III – Where Flowers Die ୧₊‧ ˚₊⊹ — Ryomen Sukuna
۶ৎ It’s 1946. The war is over. The city is learning to breathe again — but you are not. Nanami Kento, your husband, was buried in a common grave for heroes. A final telegram, a forgotten medal on the dresser, and a bloodstained letter were all that remained of him. Since then, you’ve lived in a house that feels far too big for one woman, and a bed that weighs like stone without his body beside you.
You spend your days writing letters that will never be read, listening to the neighbors rebuild their lives, smelling the coffee without feeling hunger. Loneliness is a cruel but constant companion. Until the union’s accountant — a man named Ryomen Sukuna — begins to show up more often than necessary.
He’s rough, ill-tempered, and smells of smoke and old paperwork. But there’s something in his eyes… something that sees you without pity, yet without condescension. A man marked by the war in another way. A man who also lost, but never speaks of it.
wc. 2.3k
cw. grief, death of a spouse, emotional trauma, depression, existential despair, psychological distress, PTSD triggers, adult themes, emotional vulnerability, mild sexual tension
The rain fell for three days straight. Heavy, muddy. The kind of rain that makes flowers rot silently in the garden.
You wake to the sound of the wind shaking the shutters. The damp sheet beneath your back. The pillow still carrying the scent of another sleepless night. No dreams came. But the shadows of memory sat on the edge of your bed and never left.
The whole house is hazy. It seems to breathe with difficulty, like you.
Each room has its own way of reminding you of absence.
In the living room, a pair of Nanami’s gloves. Worn in the palms. You find them while looking for firewood. They still hold the shape of his hands. You bring them to your face.
You inhale.
And that’s when it begins.
Not the crying.
But the breaking apart.
First, the hot emptiness in your throat. Then, the tightness between your ribs, as if an invisible hand were squeezing your body from the inside. And then, the image: him walking out the gate that morning in 1946.
The crooked coat.
The hair hastily combed.
The kiss he placed on your forehead, almost without touching.
And the phrase: “When this is over, I’ll take you to see the cherry blossoms.”
But he never came back. And the cherry blossoms bloomed anyway. Alone.
You don’t scream. You don’t break anything. You don’t need to.
Because the pain comes whole.
Solid.
Unashamed.
It invades your eyes, your mouth, your lungs. You lean against the wall, still holding the gloves. Slowly, you slide to the floor. Your knees hit the boards hard. But you don’t feel it. You’re too submerged.
Mouth slightly open. Chin trembling. The sound of your crying is hollow, almost childlike. As if your throat had forgotten how to cry properly.
And when someone knocks on the door — three times, firm — you don’t even hear it.
You only hear the fourth. And the fifth.
The doorknob turns. Sukuna enters.
He says nothing.
Doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t question your appearance. Your hair wet with sweat. The damp floor around your body.
He sees. And that’s enough.
He takes off his shoes. Walks toward you with the same hesitation as someone stepping on holy ground. The house isn’t his. The grief isn’t his either. But you are there. And he can’t leave.
Then he kneels. Slowly. No rush.
He’s face to face with you. His eyes searching yours, but not demanding contact.
You don’t look at him. Just stare at the floor. Gloves still clutched in your hands.
He speaks at last.
“What do I do?”
You let out a choked laugh. Wet with salt and despair.
“Nothing.”
And that “nothing” is the most intimate thing you’ve said to anyone since losing Nanami.
Because “nothing” means: don’t try to fix me. Don’t pretend you understand. Just stay.
And he understands. In a crooked way, but he understands.
A dense silence settles. But it’s not emptiness. It’s a kind of presence that fills completely.
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.
But his fingers brush the floor, almost as if asking permission from time itself.
You slowly turn your face. Tears still flowing.
And then, when your hand finally falls from your lap — tired, open — he takes it.
Firmly.
Without ceremony.
His hand is rough. Calloused. Warm.
It doesn’t comfort.
It’s not sweet.
But it’s real. Present. Whole.
And for a brief, nameless second, you feel the world turn back. Just a little. Just enough.
You squeeze his hand. Not as a plea. But as a warning.
It still hurts. Still feels incomplete. But you won’t die from it today.
He understands. And he doesn’t let go.
Time passes.
The morning light begins to seep through the windows like spilled milk. Slow. Silent.
You rest your head on his shoulder. For the first time, without thinking of anyone else.
Not because you’ve forgotten Nanami. But because the space of absence is no longer so sharp. Now, it’s a warm scar.
Sukuna doesn’t move. Just breathes quietly.
And in that silence, full of internal noise, something new is born. Fragile. Still afraid. But alive.
In the following days, the pain changes shape.
It doesn’t disappear. But it settles inside you like a tired animal. Still breathing, still heavy — but it no longer bites.
The world outside continues — even if you see it only halfway. The wind still blows from the south. Trees still lose their leaves. The sun still rises and sets with the same cruel precision as always.
And Sukuna keeps coming.
Every Tuesday.
Sometimes Saturdays.
A Thursday here or there, when he “happened to be passing by.”
There are no long conversations. He doesn’t force words. And you… you still don’t have the strength to offer much more than your weary presence.
But he sits in the kitchen. Takes off his shoes with a sigh. Leaves a paper bag on the table—bread, sometimes apples, or old newspapers. He drinks the tea you make, without asking if he likes it.
He just stays.
Once, you notice that his footsteps sound different on the floor. Softer. As if he’s trying not to make noise.
You notice it on a rainy-scented late afternoon.
You’re standing at the sink, rinsing the cracked clay teapot. The water runs over your hands, too warm. The window creaks with the wind, and the sky feels like lead.
He approaches from behind. But doesn’t touch.
You only know he’s there because you feel it. Like a slow warmth behind you.
“The window’s going to break,” he says after long seconds.
You nod. But don’t move.
He walks to it. Locks the latch. Secures the chain. His fingers skillful, quick.
You watch through the reflection in the glass. His face hardened, eyebrows furrowed, as if always ready to fight the world. But not with you.
Never with you.
That night, he doesn’t leave early.
Stays until the candles burn out. Stays until you doze off on the sofa, body curved, blanket crooked over your shoulders. And for the first time, when you wake, there’s a note on the table.
It’s not delicate. Handwriting is ugly. Slanted. Scribbled.
But it’s honest.
"You snore. I woke up to it. Left before dawn. Brought bread.
R.S."
You hold the paper in both hands. And something in your chest — small, almost invisible — trembles.
You tuck the note inside of Nanami's book. Not out of betrayal. But for shelter.
Days pass. Some better. Some worse.
You sweep the yard. Plant onions. Write letters to your dead husband — now with less guilt, more longing.
And Sukuna keeps coming.
One Tuesday under a clear sky, he helps fix the porch bench. Another, he carries firewood with strong, silent arms. Sometimes he comments on a stupid neighbor. About the war that took his brother. About how the new mayor is an idiot.
You listen. Don’t respond. But learn to laugh again. Low, brief, but still.
You realize the silences between you are no longer tombs. They are air vents.
One day, he shows up without the bag of bread.
Just him, and his big empty hands.
You ask, surprised:
“Nothing left today?”
He looks into your eyes for long seconds. Then scratches his chin and replies:
“Today… I just wanted to come.”
It’s an offering. Almost a request. A poorly stitched thread of affection he gives as best he can.
You don’t answer. But let him in anyway.
One night, you drop a cup.
The sound of breaking ceramic is too loud. Frightening. Reminds you of bombs. Cries. Field hospitals.
You fall to your knees and start picking up the shards with bare hands.
Sukuna rushes to you.
“Hey, stop. You’ll cut yourself.”
But you continue. Almost angry. At the shards. At yourself. At the world.
“Doesn’t matter. It was already broken. Everything is.”
He kneels. Grips your wrist firmly. Forces you to stop.
“This is all that’s left of me too, you know?” His tone rough, harsh, but the eyes… the eyes aren’t.
You look at him. And for the first time, see.
You’re not the only one who’s lost.
Sukuna has holes in his chest too. Just learned to hide them with silence and sarcasm.
That night, you break the bread he brought with your own hands. Share it with him without a word.
And eat. Not with appetite. But with acceptance.
Then wash the dishes. Then sit in the rocking chair. And when he leaves, you say:
“See you Tuesday.”
Voice nearly failing. But it comes out.
And he smiles. Short. Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Time no longer hurts as much — but it doesn’t hurry to heal either.
It just passes. Like wind through a closed house, shifting dust, memories, forgotten little things across the furniture.
You wake earlier now. Not because you want to. But because dreams have been kind. And you respect them, with an almost guilty gratitude.
In the first minutes of the morning, there’s a kind of peace. It arrives with the smell of old bread toasting on the griddle. With the snap of wood opening under bare feet. With the pale light filtering through the poorly sewn curtain.
You fill the kettle. Watch the bubbles rise in the water before it boils. Each day, these gestures — automatic, repeated, small — become anchors. They are what remind you: you are still here.
Sukuna comes. As always.
Only now… you hear the steps before they sound. Your body anticipates the sound. Your mind marks the time, even without a clock.
He arrives wearing a thick coat, the scent of leather and breeze. He brings with him some distant city smell — smoke, perhaps metal. But strangely, it no longer bothers you. It’s presence. It’s constancy.
On a Sunday that wasn’t Tuesday, he knocks on the door. You take your time opening — it was sewing the hem of your own silence. But he waits. Without complaint. Without shouting.
Just waits.
When you open, he raises a cloth bag with crushed vegetables.
“The market threw these out. They were ugly,” he says, tossing it on the counter as if it means nothing.
You don’t thank him. He doesn’t wait. It’s a strange pact: the two of you approach like wounded animals, sniffing the terrain. No abruptness.
Sometimes he looks at you for too long. But looks away before being noticed.
Other times, you feel his gaze on your face, even when your back is turned. As if he wants to ask something. But doesn’t know the right language.
You feel it.
The air grows denser between you, but it doesn’t suffocate. It’s the kind of density that fills. Like winter mist filling the gaps in a dead city.
On an overcast afternoon, Sukuna notices you are writing.
He enters quietly and walks to the shelf. Fingers dirty with charcoal trace the edges of the books. Glide over the wood. Stop on a thin volume — a notebook with a cloth cover.
“May I?” he asks.
You hesitate.
But nod.
He opens it. Flips slowly. His eyes dance over sentences, scribbles, unfinished poems.
He doesn’t praise. Doesn’t judge.
He just closes the notebook and returns it to its place.
“It’s good.” That’s all he says.
And in that instant, something inside you wants to cry. But you don’t cry.
You make tea.
Later, he sits on the back door sill. Body curved, arms over knees, like someone who never learned how to rest. You bring the cup to him. Hand it over silently.
He accepts without looking.
You sit beside him. But not close. There is still space between you. Necessary space. Respected space.
The wind shakes the clothes on the line. Some buttons of your blouse are undone. But you don’t care.
“Do you always sew your own silence?” he asks.
The question is strange.
But true.
You swallow. Answer with eyes fixed on the horizon line.
“If I don’t sew it, it escapes everywhere.”
He nods. Like he understands. Like he has lived the same.
That night, after he leaves, you open the bedroom window. Let the wind in. Let the curtains dance.
And sleep without curling up.
In the days that follow, you start talking more.
Not about Nanami.
Not about the war.
But about the now.
“The onions haven’t sprouted,” you say, late in the afternoon.
Sukuna merely murmurs:
“You have to wait. They take longer when they feel cold.”
You know he isn’t just speaking about vegetables.
He begins helping more. Fixes the cupboard door. Straightens the roof. Brings an old radio he found at a flea market and spends the entire afternoon trying to make it work.
You watch.
The rough but precise way. The big hands. The calloused fingers. The patience hidden among swears and grunts.
On the third try, the radio crackles. Releases a faint sound. Then music.
An old song. One your body recognizes before your mind.
You freeze. Your heart jumps foolishly.
Sukuna notices.
“Should I turn it off?” he asks, already rising.
“No,” you reply. “Leave it. I remember it.”
You move closer. Stand near. But do not touch.
The sound fills the room. And for the first time in months, you allow yourself to lean your back against the chest of longing — without collapsing.
Sukuna doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe loudly. Just watches.
With respect.
With care.
With something that, though he never says it, feels like affection.
At night, you write again.
Not for Nanami.
For yourself.
About the hands that fix. About the silence that sustains. About the Tuesdays that ceased being just days.
You still sleep alone. Still dream of war. Still wake startled by thunder.
But now, there’s an extra mug on the shelf. Fresh bread on the table. A chair that isn’t yours, but no longer feels like a stranger’s.
Please don’t make sukuna know nanami before pleaaaase i just feel like them being total strangers and understanding eachother deeply is more impactful but of course that’s your writing and your choice so it’s up to you 🤍
i love that you’re thinking about these possibilities❤️ to me, solace’s past has always been intentionally blurry — i like the idea of letting each reader imagine what came before: whether they were complete strangers, whether sukuna made a promise to nanami, or if everything is just coincidence and fate. any interpretation is valid, as long as it moves you somehow.
Thank you for feeling the story with your heart.❤️❤️
I LOVE LOVE LOVE SOLACE. It’s just so amazingly written and the angst is so heartbreaking i love it! Can’t wait for the other parts! 🤍
Thank you so much!!! ❤️ I’m so happy Solace is reaching you like this — the angst really tore me up while writing too. I can’t wait to share the next parts with you. Hold on tight, it only gets deeper from here. 🥺
For some reason my brain likes to think Sukuna is a vet but maybe he’s unable to be in the army still due to some injury. Like idk maybe Nanami was his drill Sargent and he promised him to take care of y/n or check in on her if anything ever happened to him and knowing Nanami and how intentional his love and care is as a husband, I bet he’d purposely choose someone complete opposite of his personality so they could be what y/n needs to heal because he knew that someone being around too similar to him would cause her more pain.
This is so much more than a theory. It’s a whole soul laid bare. The way you imagined Nanami’s intentionality even beyond death, choosing someone unlike him not out of distance but out of care, wrecked me in the best way. Sukuna being a broken vet, half-healed and rough-edged, was never part of the original plan — but now I can't unsee it. Thank you for showing me a version of them I didn't know I needed. ❤️
