❛❛ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑’𝖘 𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖜𝖘 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖍❟ A hand lays claim to the outstretched parchment offered by his cursed companion. A claw slips into the crease of the fold; a single smoothing motion opens it beneath the unblinking curiosity of the divine. Carmine stare drift first to the winter garden beyond ⸻ the lake laid dormant beneath pure ivory snow, frost clinging like rot camouflaged as something lovely ⸻ then lower, to what the other has decided to present. Silence reigns between them. Long. All four of his eyes sweep the contents. Amusement flickers openly across a monstrous visage.
❛ How hideous, ❜ murmurs the king, quiet and indulgent, draped in ebon finery. his bulk is a violent interruption, cleaving the pale tundra like scar tissue. Secondary arms adjust beneath the fur-lined haori, folding in, drawing the garment tighter around his chest. Sukuna shifts only enough to regard the other. Who would waste such high-grade paper on something like this? Why, himself. Of course. How positively sinful.
This indulgence of his ⸻ this poorly rendered image of the two of them entwined, bodies locked together in the heady excess of shared appetite, mouths claimed and claiming ⸻ feels decadent in a way that borders on obscene. His expression seals itself shut as his gaze returns to the frozen lake. The parchment is folded once. Twice. Again. The small square vanishes into his sleeve, claimed without ceremony.
❛ Tea by the banks, you said. Parchment. Ink. The tea you promised me. Surely, you meant to practice that truly atrocious handwriting you insist on pretending to possessing, and I was to sit beside you as though entirely unawares. Perhaps a poem or two. Something fitting for the carnage rotting quietly beneath all of this lovliness. For this to be it . . . ❜ The remark dissolves into a low hum, resonant, vibrating deep in his chest. And yet, Sukuna keeps it. Tucked away. Safe.
His mouth curves. Eyes close, carving sharp crescents of private amusement into his face. Nothing more needs saying. Had this been one of those insipid dramas mortals seem so fond of, the camera might have lingered on the tableau: dead things strewn endlessly beneath the pageantry of wealth, the proper dining performed beneath the illusion of tradition’s protection. The cursed lord’s train drags through blood-slick ice. He bends, plucking an umbrella nearly frozen into the stiffened hand of a servant. Fingers crack and shatter as they release it, one by one. Sukuna does not spare the corpse a thought ⸻ some insignificant mortal, slain by one of them.
He lifts the umbrella overhead as though to shield himself from the falling snow. Pointless. The heat of him alone repels the cold. Knotted cords sway; bells chime softly as he returns to loom over their stolen table. Blood-tipped claws select a brush. He dips it into cooling ink, meticulous in stripping away the excess. The parchment waits. blank, pristine, untouched until now He pivots. The brush moves: quick, bold, careful strokes. His voice, deep and smooth, names each character as it is born upon the page. commanding into being his accompanying art, he composes.
In winter older than this name,
tracks left covered by drifts remain
The lake is sealed—
a shrine mirror locked in ice.
Braziers whisper pine and incense.
Tea bites the tongue, dark and clean,
praised by lords when speaking of plum buds,
of sleeves dampened by thawing snow.
They lie instead.
Robes folded as custom demands,
faces pale, almost borrowed from ghosts.
Blood falls sparingly—
rubies dropped upon white silk,
camellias crushed without ceremony.
Beside me, my other breath.
Our frost-clouded mouths nearly meet.
A knee touches, leaves.
Hands remember, then forget.
Desire gathers like snow on eaves—
silent, heavy, devout.
To hunger
is a sin we savor together.
teeth near flesh, never breaking.
A chase that ends in stillness.
Let the lake hold this image.
Let the dead keep watch.
The brush is dropped there at the end of this last character. The ink drags and splatters at the edge of the parchment. It dries quickly with the help of such bitterly cold environs.
