xia

𝟤2 | 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

[fallentology]

Ink & Ice

𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

SYNOPSIS: An Olympic figure skater is forced to share an apartment with a tattoo artist who wants nothing to do with her—and somehow, they start to fit. What begins as a temporary arrangement turns into quiet routines, sharp tension, and something neither of them is ready to lose. WORD COUNT: 17.6k

The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.

It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.

Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”

You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.

No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.

You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.

Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”

He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”

You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”

The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.

The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.

You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.

The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.

Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.

Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.

“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”

“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”

You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”

The apartment hit you all at once.

It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.

Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.

“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.

You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”

Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”

His bedroom door shut a moment later.

You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.

Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.

You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.

Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.

Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.

For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.

You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.

The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.

Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.

Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.

Then the front door slammed.

You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.

You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.

“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”

You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.

“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”

You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”

Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”

You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.

As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.

“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”

You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.

The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.

You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”

“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”

A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.

You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.

“You only own one plate,” you observed.

“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”

You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.

Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.

“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.

“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”

Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”

You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”

“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.

You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.

Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.

Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.

You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”

You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.

“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.

He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”

But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.

You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

This was going to be a long few months.

The single plate situation was becoming a problem.

By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.

This morning was no exception.

You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.

He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.

“You’re using both plates,” he observed.

“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”

Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.

Progress. Sort of.

Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.

Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.

You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.

You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.

He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.

“Practice go to shit?” he asked.

“How could you tell?”

“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”

You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.

“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”

Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”

He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”

You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”

“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”

You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.

The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.

Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.

“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”

You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”

“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”

Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.

At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.

Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.

You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.

“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”

“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.

He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”

“I’m graceful, not tall.”

A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.

Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.

That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.

“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.

You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”

“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”

You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”

“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”

You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”

Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.

You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.

The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.

Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.

Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.

You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.

Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”

He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”

You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”

You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”

You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.

You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”

“Hours ago.”

“Liar. You waited.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.

You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.

“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”

You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”

The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.

Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.

The floor creaked.

Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.

“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.

“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”

You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.

After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”

Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”

You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.

“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.

Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”

You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.

Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.

“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”

You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.

But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.

A truce, maybe.

Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.

The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.

Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.

Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”

You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”

“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”

You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”

“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”

You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.

Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.

The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.

Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.

“Oh shit,” she muttered.

The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.

Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.

“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.

“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”

The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”

One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”

Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.

He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”

You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”

Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”

You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.

After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.

“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”

“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”

Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.

Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.

The artist scurried away.

You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”

“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”

The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.

Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.

“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.

“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”

“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”

“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”

The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.

When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.

He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.

“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”

“I do not—”

He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.

“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”

You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.

Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.

“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”

You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.

“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”

The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.

Neither of you commented on it.

The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.

It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.

You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.

He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.

“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.

“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”

Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.

A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.

“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.

“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”

You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.

When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.

You were out cold in under five minutes.

Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.

He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”

But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.

He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.

Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.

He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.

You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.

You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.

You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.

On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.

When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.

The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.

You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.

He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.

You took it. “Thanks.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.

You hid your smile behind the mug.

Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.

For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.

You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.

The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.

But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.

The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.

Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.

You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.

“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”

You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”

“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”

“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”

You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.

That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.

You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.

Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.

“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”

“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”

He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.

“Hey!”

“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”

You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”

“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”

You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.

Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.

“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”

You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”

“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”

The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”

“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”

You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.

Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”

“You went through my bag?”

“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”

You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.

Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.

After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.

Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”

“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”

You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.

“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”

“You watched the practice footage?”

“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”

He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.

“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”

You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”

Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”

But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.

And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:

Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.

You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.

The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.

The pressure was starting to crack you open.

Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.

Sukuna noticed.

He always noticed.

Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.

When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.

You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.

The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.

He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.

“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.

You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”

“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”

You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”

Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”

The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.

“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”

Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.

“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”

“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”

“Good. Because that’s all I got.”

You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.

After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”

Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”

“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”

The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.

You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”

“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”

The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.

Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.

You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.

You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.

The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:

Rink better not eat you alive today. There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it. — S

You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.

The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.

Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.

And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.

The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.

You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.

But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.

You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.

He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.

You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”

He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”

You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.

“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”

Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.

“Then let them talk.”

You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”

“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”

The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.

Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.

You froze.

“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”

You stayed.

The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.

When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.

After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.

“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”

Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.

The air thickened.

For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.

Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.

“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”

You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.

You joined him.

He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.

“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”

Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Yeah?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.

When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”

You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip. 

Neither of you spoke about it.

But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”

You smiled the entire way to the rink.

The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.

The spiral had been building for days.

Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.

Sukuna watched it happen in real time.

He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.

You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.

It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.

Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:

Sukuna: Answer. You dead? If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills. Come home.

No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.

He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”

The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.

And there you were.

Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.

Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.

You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.

Not from the cold.

Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.

He knew you.

If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.

So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.

After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.

Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.

When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.

Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:

Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.

You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.

He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.

You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.

Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.

You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He grunted. “Told you to eat.”

You lingered. “You went to the rink.”

A pause. The pencil stopped moving.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t come out.”

“No.”

You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”

Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”

The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.

You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”

You nodded against him.

He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.

For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.

The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.

You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.

Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.

“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.

“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.

You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.

“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”

He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.

That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.

Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.

“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.

Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”

“I’m not most people.”

He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”

You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.

“What does this one mean?”

Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”

You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”

“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”

The words hung between you. You looked up at him.

“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”

Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”

You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.

“You want one?” he asked suddenly.

Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”

“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.

Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”

“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”

The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”

The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.

This time, he didn’t pull away.

The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.

“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”

You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.

“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”

You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.

That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.

The shift was quiet, but undeniable.

By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.

You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.

When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.

“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.

“You’ll fall back asleep.”

“Don’t care.”

You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..

“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.

“Yes, sir.”

He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.

That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.

He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.

“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.

“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.

You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.

“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”

You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”

“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”

The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”

You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.

After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.

“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”

You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”

Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”

Your heart clenched.

Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.

He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.

“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”

You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.

The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.

Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.

One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.

At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.

The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.

You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.

He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”

Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.

Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.

One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”

Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.

“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”

He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.

The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.

Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.

You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.

Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.

“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.

You showed him the text.

His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.

“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”

The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.

You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.

By evening the tension was unbearable.

You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.

“Sukuna.”

“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”

The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”

He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”

“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”

You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.

“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”

“I don’t want half-in either.”

Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.

When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”

Your chest ached. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.

This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.

He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.

“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.

“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”

You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”

For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.

But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

Nationals arrived like a storm.

The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.

Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.

“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.

Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.

Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.

The scores flashed.

First place. Narrow lead.

The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.

You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.

Footsteps echoed.

You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.

Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.

“You came backstage,” you whispered.

“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”

“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”

Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.

“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”

You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”

“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”

You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”

“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.

Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.

The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.

He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.

Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.

For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.

The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.

The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.

You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.

The music started.

You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.

When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.

You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.

Gold.

You won Nationals by a narrow margin.

The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.

Then the backlash started.

While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:

“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.” “Underscored the younger girls again.” “Overrated. Time to retire.” “Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”

By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.

You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.

The numbness hit.

You’d won. And it still felt hollow.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.

“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.

You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”

Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”

“What did you see?” you whispered.

“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”

You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.

His motorcycle waited in the back lot.

You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.

He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.

Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.

“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.

“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”

You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.

You kissed him first.

Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.

When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”

You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.

The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.

The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.

He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.

Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.

“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”

You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.

Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.

He didn’t tease for long.

His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.

“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”

“Yes— God, Sukuna—”

He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.

Then he flipped you over.

He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.

“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”

He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.

“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”

You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.

For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.

Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.

“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.

You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”

He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”

You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.

The shower was supposed to be practical.

It wasn’t.

Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”

“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”

He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.

You barely made it to the bed afterward.

Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.

When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”

“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”

Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.

You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.

Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.

“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.

“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.

Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”

The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.

The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.

You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.

Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.

“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”

You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.

After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.

“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”

You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”

You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”

He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.

Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.

After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.

“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”

“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”

Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”

You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”

Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”

Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”

The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.

You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.

Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.

“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.

Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”

You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”

He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.

That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.

After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.

“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”

Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”

You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.

No more temporary arrangement.

No more hesitation.

Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.

Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.

Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.

You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”

“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”

You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”

“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”

You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.

After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.

You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.

“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.

“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”

He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.

“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Much. Thank you.”

He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.

You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.

The apartment had changed so much.

Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.

Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.

“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.

You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.

“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”

Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.

Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.

In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.

“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”

You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.

Two plates waited on the counter.

Two helmets by the door.

Two lives that had quietly become one.

And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.

This was the ending you’d never known you needed.

Not perfect. Not glamorous.

Just real.

Just yours.

© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[luubug]

𖤝 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋮ Sukuna's an angel. Or at least, that's what he used to be before he was cast out for his disobedience. He's dragging himself— torn and bloody through whatever godforsaken forest he had crashed in. Everything looks bleak for Sukuna until he spots your little cabin on the muddy riverbank. Perhaps you, the clumsy witch residing within its wooden walls, can grant him salvation.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ wc : 7.7k, a little self-indulgent whoops, angst (idk Sukuna gets kicked out of heaven), idk how coherent this plot is either pretend it happens in a span of months, religious themes, slight fluff, eventual smut, true form sukuna x fem!reader, descriptions of injuries, blood, two cocks (only one is used), oral (fem recieving), fingering, piv sex

art creds :: please let me know the artist of the third image, have tried looking everywhere </3

Angels were made not to feel arrogance, fury, pain — all those emotions that made us human.

Sukuna knew that was a lie the second he was cast out, the heavens above tearing his white wings straight from his back and leaving two gaping wounds in the process. The sky split as he fell, shaking the core of Earth itself with a blinding light surging through the gap left behind. It was the sort of light that burned through the fallen angel, all the way down to his very bones and set him alight from the inside.

Divinity unravelled into sin.

Sukuna's back throbbed in agony, a pained howl ripping through his throat as he continued to fall.

And fall.

And fall.

Wind lashed against his defiled body. The experts called this spectacle another shooting star, a meteor streaking its way through the night sky. Onlookers gasped in awe as he disappeared into the black horizon. They couldn't be further from the truth.

Sukuna kept falling — all the way until the taste of betrayal in his mouth turned into mud and dirt. He had crash landed into a forest in the death of night, a shell of what he once was. A crater had bloomed where he had landed, the forest ricocheting like shrapnel over him — yet Sukuna refused to succumb to the pain.

An unbridled rage gripped him as he lay there, twitching as the blood ran down his back.

How dare they?

He was made out of light, fire, and yet the heavens stripped him of his glory — all because he refused to submit to a lesser being made of clay. Sukuna's arrogance had resulted in him getting cast out, and to that he spat on the ground. What he had left was defiance as he pushed himself up, muscles rippling as his chest rose and fell shakily. His breath was ragged as his four red eyes scanned the dark surroundings.

Beneath him, the soil soaked in the red of his blood, the precious liquid having dripped out of his wounds where his wings should've been and down the curve of his spine. Dying alone here wasn't an option for Sukuna, however. He wasn't about to give the heavens a reason to rejoice. He wasn't about to prove their judgement of him as final.

That was why he grunted low, forcing himself to move despite the way his back screamed in protest. The effort was truly ugly — all the grace he had in his former body having evaporated out of him the second he was ousted.

Two of Sukuna's four palms skidded momentarily against the mud before he mustered up the energy to stand tall. He swayed once, then twice.

Sukuna did not fall.

Spite won over anything else, allowing the forest to part before him as he moved through it. The branches thwacked against Sukuna, until they gradually thinned and the stubborn roots began to lose their grip on the earth below. Moonlight washed over his body, baptising his nudity that he was so painfully aware of. He wasn't ashamed, not at all. Sukuna was irritated at this indignity bestowed upon him.

He pushed on, feeling the ground slope beneath his bare feet until the air grew clearer around him. It felt cooler, damp, and the odd sound of running water met Sukuna's ear. It was clear that the source came from a river now that he was face to face with it.

Water.

A pang of thirst hit him — something that he had never felt before his exile. Sukuna's body moved towards the source of life without thinking, until he had sank onto his knees and gulped until the liquid threatened to bubble back up. Only then did he rise once more, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

When he scanned the area once more, nothing in particular stood out. But then Sukuna's eyes widened, trying to make out the shape in the darkness that resembled something akin to shelter squatting by the riverbed. A faint glow bled through what must've been the windowpanes. Above sat a chimney from which light smoke curled out in thin tendrils that dissolved into nothingness.

It wasn't anything grand by any means, but it was enough. It felt alive, something Sukuna wasn't accustomed to yet. He stared after it for longer than he meant to, his scarred skin tense and prickling with something he couldn't name.

Each step grew heavier than the last as Sukuna set his target on the hut. He was still bleeding, still clinging onto survival — shaking violently as defiance mixed with exhaustion. Yet he dragged himself on, all the way until his knees finally gave out from exhaustion.

The night went on, swallowing the pitiful fallen angel's body. His nails dug into the dirt, and just for one hopeful second, Sukuna thinks he could pull himself back up like he has done before.

But he couldn't.

His eyes shut, and consciousness flickered away. The very last thing Sukuna was aware of was a feminine hum followed by a sharp gasp, a figure looming in front of him as he passed out.

For the first time since Sukuna fell, he didn't rise — not for a while.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Why I outta— ah. You're awake, it seems."

Was he?

Sukuna's head swam, nausea hitting him as consciousness came floating back in small fragments. He found himself unable to breathe, body shooting upwards as a terrible cough wracked his lungs. The scent invading his body was herbal, bitter and left him gasping for air as you watched — clearly unimpressed.

"You can stop that, y'know," you muttered, cracking open a window and letting daylight in. "My precious herbs aren't that bad."

When the worst of the dry heaving had subsided, Sukuna grimaced, looking down to see his upper body bandaged and lower half covered with a blanket of some sorts. He then raised his head, taking in the wooden beams of what was presumably your hut. Oddities were strewn around everywhere in the small space, cluttering your living area with metal trinkets and hanging ropes of garlic amongst other things.

And then he registers something soft underneath his hulking body — a narrow bed that was almost folding in half because of his weight. Honestly, it was a miracle to you that it was still intact.

Above all else, one realisation had hit Sukuna — you had touched him.

His gaze snapped at you as you stood a few steps away by a cluttered table packed to the brim with various bottles.

"Woah, what's with the look?"

Sukuna's jaw tightened, and then he tried speaking. He cleared his throat, testing out the words on his tongue.

"I assume that you were the one to have . . . moved me."

You swallowed, choosing not to lie. There was no need to — you two were the only ones there for miles around. "That I did."

"That is rather bold of you to touch something that was once of pure divinity," Sukuna pointed out, shifting so that he was seated upright. The searing pain in his back had gone, replaced by a deep but manageable ache that seemed to resonate inside of him.

"Whatever you were, that doesn't matter now," you pointed out, unaware of his circumstances. "You landed on my property, all bloody and battered and you probably should take it easy for a while."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed at you as he attempted to stand. Immediately, a hiss left his throat.

"Don't move like that, you'll tear something." Your voice was firm as you stepped closer without thinking. Above his shoulder, your hand hovered in uncertainty — had you upset the man?

Sukuna sat back down begrudgingly, slightly stung at the dismissal of his status. The bed creaked once more in protest, and you swore you heard wood splintering somewhere. The sound made you grimace, yet your voice took on a more gentle tone. Something was clearly wrong with whoever this man is, and something in you said that he was capable of far more than he let on.

"Well . . . you can stay here as long as you like. Just be careful, please. I made this furniture myself and it took quite a while."

That got a different sort of reaction out of Sukuna. His mouth twitched — barely.

"You house a fallen angel," he mused, looking up at you, "and your flimsy chairs are your main concern?"

Your eyes widened, the pieces of the puzzle slowly connecting together in your mind. Fallen angel? Well, that would have explained the two large gashes on his back. "Is that what you really are, Mr . . . ?"

"Sukuna, and yes. That I am."

You mumbled out your own name, suddenly falling quiet as you took in this new revelation. Sukuna cocked his head, studying you curiously. "Your silence intrigues me. Tell me — should you not be scared, little one?"

"Of what?"

"Of what I am."

You thought for a second. It wasn't like you were completely unafraid of what Sukuna was — finding him in such a vulnerable state was more than a sure sign that danger lurked not too far away. But if you thought deeper . . .

"I'm well acquainted with things that are out of the ordinary," you explained, choosing your words carefully. "A fallen angel is bound to be another addition to that."

"And what makes you so special?"

"I didn't say I was special," you blurted, trying to preserve your image. "I'm just a witch— or, well, a practising one."

Sukuna hummed low, the sound rumbling in his chest.

"That explains the wards you have hung around this hut."

He wasn't wrong — for the sake of your safety, you had cast a ward many moons ago to keep out any negative energy away from you. Sukuna wasn't at all surprised that he had bypassed that. You had let him in willingly, after all. Whether that was a good choice on your end, well, time would have to tell.

"I didn't know you could see them."

"I can see many things the human eye cannot," he replied simply.

And then your mouth ran faster than your mind could, a sceptical look shooting Sukuna's way. "Doesn't seem that way to me, considering the fact that you crashed face first into the ground."

Silence.

You grimaced — it appeared that your horribly timed attempt at a joke didn't land well. No pun intended.

But unexpectedly, a rush of air left Sukuna's nose. It was short and sharp, more out of disbelief than anything else. It even startled him, making him adjust the mildly amused look on his face into one of irritation.

"Your mouth runs carelessly, little one," he said.

"Seems as though I'm not the only careless one around here." You were really testing the waters now.

Sukuna stared at you, so you stared back.

Really stared.

You thought he would retaliate, but he didn't. An awkward cough from you filled the silence. Then, some shuffling as you moved in place.

"Anyway," you said, "I've tended to your back as you can see.

"I can indeed," Sukuna said flatly. "I'm not quite fond of the . . . smell."

Figures.

A sigh left you as he watched you wander off, the sound of clinking meeting his pierced ears. When you came back, bottles of various liquids occupied the space in your hands — ranging from the deepest yellows to creamy whites. "These are just some home remedies I used after washing your back. I'll need to apply these again when I change your bandages."

"And when will you be doing that?"

"Now. Because as you can see, you're bleeding through the old—"

"Absolutely not."

A pause.

"Absolutely yes," you argued. "You may be of higher power but that doesn't mean you're invincible to infection, especially now that you're on my turf."

Sukuna simmered in his seat, refusing to look your way.

"I suppose you'd like to reopen all your wounds then?"

. . .

That got him to turn, just enough for you to carefully roll the bloodied bandages off his torso. You could ignore the four arms for now as you set the bottles of ointment to the side, face to face with the large gashes running down Sukuna's shoulder blades. The skin had split, making you wince as you tried not to focus too much on the injuries in front of you.

As you worked, your mind raced yet again — what atrocities had he committed to be deserving of such treatment?"

A grunt dragged you out of your thoughts. The ointment was slippery between your fingers and Sukuna's wounds stung terribly so as you applied it onto his skin. "If you could handle that fall, you can handle this, Sukuna."

"That does not mean I want to," he bit back as curtly as he could. It was all too much for the fallen angel, having wound up in some witches hut and being tended to like a stray dog. But what could he do except take it? That was why Sukuna stayed in his seat, body tense as he chose to restrain himself.

"There we go, nice and calm," you squinted, drying your hands clean and fetching a fresh roll of gauze to wrap around Sukuna.

"I am choosing patience," Sukuna gritted out, lifting up his arms one by one as you manoeuvred around him. You nodded, making sure he was securely patched up whilst the river outside continued to splash against the bank. The world around you both continued to move, and the heavens above remained a silent witness to what was going on with their fallen angel.

Sukuna — the being who had sworn not to kneel to anyone, remained in his seat on top of the creaking bed beneath your wandering hands.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sukuna was making better progress than you had initially expected. Time trudged on, creeping in through the small things — like the light beams across your wooden floorboards shifting across your rooms. The river outside, too. It ebbed and flowed with each pass of the moon.

His bandages needed changing less often, slowly but surely. With the passing of time and somewhere between medicinal care to boiling weeds, living with Sukuna felt like less of a pressing matter and more of a routine.

A much welcome one, too.

It was far from a miracle the way Sukuna healed, but he was able to ignore the faint burn of the muscles of his back as he followed you around your hut. The skin had closed unevenly, causing it to scar and raise. That was a better outcome than infection, at least.

Soon enough, Sukuna picked up on your habits. Being cooped up with you made that easy, but not once did Sukuna intend for that to happen. He noticed that you woke up at precisely 5 a.m without fail, shuffling in and out of the bedroom you had so kindly given him as you went about your day.

You also had the tendency to speak to inanimate objects, banging pots and pans out of frustration when your spell casting didn't go right. Sometimes, you'd even practise in front of him — the former angel sitting there unimpressed as you tried potion-making.

His mouth would twitch without fail, every damn time when a plume of smoke would erupt in your face.

There were things about Sukuna you noticed as well. First of all, he hated wearing shirts. It took a lot of bribery on your end for him to let you fashion up a pair of loose pants for him to wear so that you didn't accidentally see them again. By them, you meant his twin pair of cocks. The imagery made you shudder, and it was one you would like to forget.

To compromise, he wore the baggy pants in exchange for being allowed to walk around topless. It was more 'freeing' for his four arms, which you supposed made sense. He sported quite a few tattoos he would rather not have explained, but at least they were nice to look at.

You also noticed how he liked to push your limits — doing nothing when you tripped over thin air or snagged your clothes against a stray hook in your usual fashion. He'd sit there, face passive and wondering how it was possible for you to be this unintentionally clumsy.

Oh, and he'd also push his body beyond the limits of what was acceptable, sending you into a panic whenever he feigned a grimace on his face.

"Don't push it, Ryomen," you warned, brows knitted as Sukuna tried walking the length of your hut without having to use your walls for support. He managed, but that didn't mean you couldn't see the sway in his step.

He scoffed, turning his head to look at you. "I am merely standing, little witch."

"You look like you're about to bolt out of my front door," you shot back, waving your favourite wooden stick at the man. "Sit."

Sukuna sat down without even realising, and when the realisation did hit — it was already too late.

You scurried off to make food, feeling a pang of hunger hit you, and Sukuna was also the perfect test subject for new recipes. He stayed rooted to the spot, bristling as a pang of annoyance hit him. He stayed quiet, staring into the wall and pretending not to notice how obedient he was around you.

Sometimes, silence was something you learned Sukuna needed. He'd have his off days, where his shoulders would hunch and the searing pain in his back would bring back spiteful memories of what had got him cast out of heaven. You would listen to Sukuna shift around until you found him in the morning sleeping upright.

His gaze would drift off, latch onto nothing as something ugly and scornful swirled beneath the red.

You never pried, no matter how much you wanted to.

Sukuna knew you wanted to as well, but you knew your limits. Those dark periods would pass, much like the rain over your hut, and everything was okay again — momentarily, but it was enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I just fixed that, Ryo," you complained, the nickname slipping out from between your lips like second nature. Perhaps it had been a couple of weeks since you had first begun to nurse Sukuna back to health. There had been no talks of sending him off elsewhere now that his condition had improved rapidly. Quite frankly, you didn't want him to go anywhere either. You told yourself he was quite good with the handiwork.

Except for now, that is.

A rake stood between you both, the wooden handle having splintered after Sukuna had taken it from your grasp. He had intended to rake up the leaves, but his grip was far too powerful. He patted the splinters off of his hand, staring down at the useless tool.

". . . I can fix it.

You let out a snort, shaking your head incredulously. "Not even my magic can turn that heap of firewood back into what it once was."

"Allow me to."

Sukuna's words made you cock a brow. "Do you really want to? I don't see any point—"

"This was my doing, so I will fix it," he said simply, as if he was telling you about his day. There wasn't any sort of challenge in his tone, which you could appreciate. It was simply just a matter of fact statement from Sukuna, to which you hesitated for only a second and nodded.

"Go ahead, then. But I'm putting you on time out if you break anything again."

Fair enough.

Sukuna was only gone momentarily as he returned with a branch. Without skipping a beat, he carefully fashioned a makeshift handle with his black nails and handed it to you before you could even process what he had done. You blinked then shifted out of neutral, wrenching the old splintered handle out of the rake and replacing it.

Lo and behold, it was completely functional.

"Well, would you look at that," you chuckled in disbelief, inspecting the rake from all angles. Sukuna reached out, intending to take the rake from you so that he could try out raking again — but then he stopped.

"Show me."

You gawked up at Sukuna, evidently startled.

"What do you mean 'show me'?"

"How you wish for me to rake your garden," he lifted up all four of his eyes off of the ground to meet yours, clarifying what he meant. "I do not wish to make the same mistake as before."

A smile broke out on your face then before you pursed your lips, not wanting to annoy the man. You demonstrated, opening your fist then closing it gently around the rake handle. Sukuna watched attentively before you handed the tool back to him. Your fingers brushed against his — and he went very, very still.

"Ah, ah. Gently. You don't need to flex your hand so hard."

Your fingers carefully adjusted his, until you could no longer see the wood threatening to bend under his grip again. Somewhere under your conscious, you noticed how Sukuna's breathing had deepened, but you were more focused on the way he mimicked your prior movements with utmost care.

The rake held in his grip.

"There you go! I told you not everything needs brute force."

Sukuna regarded the rake with thinly-veiled interest and turned his nose up. "Control, little witch," he murmured softly, "is incredibly difficult."

"Yes, but you're learning. Within time, you'll be able to handle anything with utmost care."

An odd look passed over Sukuna's face at that. He seemed almost pleased at your praise. That was why he went back to raking in silence as you supervised. His biceps flexed and relaxed with each almost reverent pull of his arms over the leaves. Something akin to affection settled in your chest, to which you swept away much like Sukuna was doing with the leaves.

When he had finished, he carefully propped the rake against the wall of your hut and turned in your direction.

"Is this acceptable?"

You nodded, quite pleased with how it had all turned out. "Of course. You did a great job, Ryo."

At the nickname, something in Sukuna stirred. He felt as if he had a purpose once more, and the feeling was addicting. A thoughtful yet dark look passed over his eyes before he turned his head away and nodded. "Then I will remember for next time," he said quietly.

He really did — having been caught by you several times testing out his grip on various items in your home. And each time without fail, your pulse picked up at the sight.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Church bells.

The sound was wrong in Sukuna's head.

It started off quiet at first — just a simple, distant toll that echoed all the way until the sound weaved its way through the forest. It hit your hut, making your head perk up one lazy morning whilst Sukuna picked berries off a nearby shrub. You frowned, trying to put a finger on what could possibly be going on.

"You hear that, right?"

Of course he did. How could he not?

The second ring of the bell resonated back into Sukuna, the sound too sharp as it pressed against his skull and branded him in a way that made his vision spark out at the edges. Before he knew it, Sukuna was shaking — his body having reacted before his mind could.

The air around him grew hot, until sweat beaded at his temple and rolled off in slick streams.

The third toll of the bell would prove to be Sukuna's unravelling, the ground under his feet cracking with a dry, splintering sound. His muscles spasmed painfully — causing a low snarl to claw its way out of his throat before he could swallow it back.

"Sukuna—?"

You were visibly startled at what was going on, looking at the increasingly hateful look on the former angel's face. The bell tolled once more, striking through flesh and bone and reigniting old pain on the scars on his back.

As if heaven itself was reminding him of his cursed status once more.

Your face paled, reminded of the wards that were around your hut. The air seemed to hold its breath, reacting to the unholy presence Sukuna was bleeding out onto your land.

"Sukuna," you called out firmer this time. Despite your common sense screaming at you not to approach him, you did. "What is that? What— are you okay?"

Before you could blink, he turned to face you. For the duration of a heartbeat, you could see something feral in Sukuna's eyes — something that was ancient and powerful and most likely forged from the depths of hell itself.

"Do not dare come close to me."

You flinched — wondering what on earth had come over you.

And then the bells rang again, the realisation hitting you like a bucket of cold water. In between your wards and what was most likely wedding bells, Sukuna fought the innate urge to kneel — pummelled by the weight of reminder of exile once more.

Sukuna didn't look at you when he spoke once more, his words landing heavily between you. He didn't speak out of anger this time — but out of finality.

"I should not have stayed this long around you. The heavens have noticed, and you are not safe with me."

You opened your mouth to speak, blood rushing to your head as you tried making sense of Sukuna's sudden collapse. Then, he cut you off.

"I should not have stayed this long," he repeated, getting off of his knees with his shoulders squared. You stared after him, in utter disbelief as he walked towards the forest and let it swallow him whole. And whilst the bell kept ringing in the distance, a sickening feeling bubbled up in your gut — making you follow shortly after.

Perhaps your inability to think rationally was the sole reason why you were able to follow Sukuna. He had made incredible progress, light almost invisible the deeper you went. But the claw marks on the bark of the trees served as your guide as the bell chimed once more. The sound may have been muffled now, but it was no less potent — dragging out noises so visceral from Sukuna's chest.

"Sukuna?" You called out, frustrated grunts leaving you as you nearly tripped over a tangle of branches.

Not once did Sukuna stop.

He was in your line of sight now, which had to count as something. It was a marvel that he was still moving, all the way up until he reached a crater in the ground.

Sukuna then staggered in his step. You almost slipped in mud, yet pushed on.

The man dropped onto one knee, exhaling sharply and wincing like it hurt for him to do so. Sukuna's nails tore through the dirt, like it'd anchor him — but to no avail.

This happened all whilst the bells echoed over and over, but this time? Sukuna openly let his body shake as you came closer yet again.

"Do not—," he croaked, cursing your stubbornness. "I am warning you again. Do not come any closer if you value your life."

You did slow, yes. But did you stop?

No.

"You can't even stand, Ryo," you stammered, trying your hardest to keep your voice steady. As always, Sukuna shook his head, attempting to hide his evident weakness.

"And since when has that ever been your concern?"

"Since you landed in front of my hut all those moons ago," you vented, throwing your hands up in the air. How ridiculous.

Another toll interrupted you, causing Sukuna to grind his teeth down until something in his jaw cracked. All four arms braced against the forest floor, back bowing almost violently. It hurt to watch.

"You do not understand. You will never understand," Sukuna snarled, teeth digging into his tongue. His anguish was evident, rendering you speechless in its intensity. "This-this darned sound. It kills me."

"So let it. I'll figure out the rest."

Your words, incredibly foolish, got his attention. He looked up, red eyes bloodshot as disbelief crossed the pained lines on his face.

"Stupid witch. You are nothing short of reckless."

"I know, but I'd rather you let me try something instead of trying to deal with it all alone."

Ring.

Whatever little control Sukuna had left had vanished into nothingness — causing his entire body to give out. You were positive he could hear your heart beating erratically in your chest as you cursed and tried dragging him to a nearby tree. It didn't work — Sukuna's body was nothing short of dead weight.

"Fuck—," you gritted out, choosing the second best option. You propped him up against you, letting him slump against your front — his forehead on your shoulder. A low sound left Sukuna then — broken and agonised.

"Sukuna," you whispered, not exactly expecting a response.

He didn't.

Without hesitation, you gently pressed your warm palms over Sukuna's ears after ridding them of any mud. He stiffened in your hold as you both sat there in the forest, taking in the way the sound of the bell dulled considerably — enough to give him some relief. What once was laboured breathing that rattled him to the core, turned into something uneven yet steady at long last.

"We can just stay here until the bell stops," you murmured, eyes honed in on Sukuna. For a long, heavy minute, he didn't move.

But then more of his weight shifted onto you. You grunted, deciding to just let him be. You didn't know how much time had passed, but when you finally were able to remove your hands?

Sukuna didn't move.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Days passed.

Sukuna was okay again, but there was one thing nagging in his mind. He brought it up one evening as you tapped away at one of the loose floorboards with a hammer.

"You have removed the wards," he mentioned casually.

. . .

"Yeah, of course," you said without looking up. The hammer continued to strike the nail, digging it further in place as Sukuna watched intently.

"And you did so knowing of what I'm capable of. What other dangers linger outside of your door."

Sukuna was right — by removing those very wards that had kept you safe for so long, you were inviting all sorts of dangers in. But none of that seemed to matter. Not anymore.

"Well, they hurt you," you shrugged, setting the hammer down once you were done. "I didn't want to keep something like that around."

Sukuna's eyes dropped to your hands, the same ones that took care of him without hesitation, without expecting anything back in return.

"You touched me back then," he continued. "I explicitly told you not to come near me, yet you did anyway."

You gnawed on your lower lip, shaking your head. Did he seriously expect you to just leave him there?

"You were in pain. What else did you want me to do?"

"That is no excuse, little witch," Sukuna pressed on — but there wasn't any ounce of hostility in his voice. "I do not recall you asking for permission to touch me like that."

That got you to stand up and truly look at Sukuna in the eyes. "And if I did ask for permission that day, would you have said no to me?"

He didn't answer, not right away. The river outside seemed to grow louder, overtaking the silence as you waited for a response. And a response he gave, even if it was far from what you had expected him to say.

"No. Not at all."

The words settled over you both, solidifying whatever odd bond was between you.

"Then don't expect an apology from me," you grinned slightly. Sukuna only stared back, a fond look crossing his face. "You won't get one."

"I cannot help but question why you are not afraid."

"I was, actually," you corrected gently. "But that wasn't enough for me to leave you in that state."

"And so you stayed." Sukuna's voice dropped into a quiet murmur. "You covered my ears in that forest when you could have simply left me, and you stayed."

"Of course I did, and I'd do it again. You needed someone back there, Ryo."

Silence.

"And what about now, little witch?"

A dangerously loaded question indeed, but you were not one to shy away from anything that much was clear.

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I find myself liking your touch more than I should. Why is that?" Sukuna teased one evening. You were sitting with him, legs against his as you stitched up a tear in his pants. You didn't want to answer that — solely because you didn't trust your mouth to say anything rational.

Sukuna let out a whistle of air through his noise out of amusement. "Your silence says more than any words you give me the pleasure of hearing."

"Can you just go back to disliking idle chatter? You talk too much," you huffed, tugging the needle through the fabric and ignoring the heat flooding onto your face.

"Ah, but look who remains seated by my side," Sukuna remarked coyly. He shifted ever so slightly, causing your thigh to rest against his bulky one.

It's just an accident, that's all, you told yourself — but neither of you corrected your direct physical contact. You pulled the thread a tad too strongly, movements faltering because of him. You cursed, adjusting your grip on the needle.

"Careful," Sukuna warned. "You will end up hurting yourself."

"Well, then stop distracting me," you scoffed, shooting a half-hearted glare his way.

"Oh? Am I distracting you?" Sukuna tilted his head to look down at you, all four of his eyes studying you with an intensity that made your stomach twist almost pleasurably. "I am simply sitting still. You are the one shaking, little witch."

"Excuse me? I am not shaking—"

"You most definitely are shaking."

You exhaled shakily, finishing off the last stitch before packing your needle and thread way in the cookie tin you kept them in. "You should stop staring at me like that, then."

"Like how?"

"Like you're a pervert who's about to touch me."

That elicited a throaty chuckle from the former angel next to you, which was the happiest he's ever sounded. "I would not have called it perverse. I thought I was becoming rather acquainted with what you humans call 'intimacy'."

Sukuna's words had your pulse quickening almost drastically. It was difficult to navigate this entire situation with a being as unstable as him, but the thrill was like no other. You dared to glance his way, eyes meeting red.

"Since when did you care about intimacy?"

"Since I met you."

Sukuna leaned back, one arm thrown over the back of your patchwork couch behind you. You willed your mouth to move, finding that it had suddenly run dry. "You sound almost sincere, y'know. I could almost believe that you're not joking."

"When have I ever been one to crack jokes like this around you?"

In your silence, Sukuna pressed on.

"I crave your touch more than I have ever craved the validation of the so-called God that cast me aside like nothing. You quietened the burn in me, little witch, and I find myself reluctant to be anywhere but here."

When you refused to look at him, Sukuna had to take matters into his own hands. He had spent many nights contemplating your dynamic, knowing that you were just what he needed to tether himself to earth. Yes, it was selfish, but Sukuna was also a risk taker — and he'd do anything to prove himself worthy of your affection.

With that, Sukuna removed himself off of his couch and kneeled between your legs. You spluttered, accidentally kicking out of shock. This prompted him to gently grab your foot with a practised softness, two of his four hands kneading at your calf. "You can't possibly be serious—"

"I am. And I intend on showing you my devotion."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sukuna stayed true to his word.

Curiosity won over, melting with the innate urge to love you the way he deemed fit. Of course there was a more romantic way to go about it, but having his mouth on your cunt was heavenly — pardon my language.

He stayed on his knees as if he was in worship, hands having settled on your waist after dragging you off the very edge of your couch. The springs groaned, inaudible as Sukuna's mouth latched onto your pussy after spreading your lips open with two thick thumbs. His tongue was nothing short of thorough, exploring each and every fold despite inexperience rendering his movements sloppy.

But that was how you liked it — it was raw, sincere. You cried out, one hand bullying its way into Sukuna's hair and tugging as his lips found your clit. "So eager for me already. I must be doing something right."

And he was — languidly sucking your clit into his mouth and grazing it with his sharp teeth. "Oh, God," you keened out, back arching off the couch. Your whines melted into a sharp squeal when Sukuna slapped the side of your thigh.

"Language."

"My bad— ahhh," you choked out, feeling one thick finger slide deep into your cunt. It appeared that Sukuna's nails had retracted, leaving you to writhe and clench around his digits as they explored your gummy walls.

Sukuna hadn't felt a heat like this before, and quite frankly — he was addicted. He was inexperienced when it came to the subject of sex, but gazing down on humanity for as long as he used to had given him enough of an idea of what to do.

Sukuna stood up, hands now gripping your ass as he folded you in half and plunged his tongue in. He loomed over, drinking each and every drop of moisture your pussy had to give him. Your legs twitched, hooking over his shoulders and around his neck to lock him in place. The fallen angel couldn't breathe — but he had never felt so alive in his cursed existence.

"Th-that's so filthy Ryo . . ."

Your voice cracked at the nickname, eyes lidded at the way he parted from you with a wet pwah. Sukuna had pulled back enough, revealing his wet, tattooed chin and glossy strands of your slick connecting his face to your mound.

"Filthy," he mocked, licking a fat stripe up the expanse of your aching pussy. "I am worshipping you, my dear witch — and not even the heavens above can drag me away from you."

He was serious, too, drawing out shrill cries that sounded more divine than any choir he had ever heard. Sukuna was dead set on drawing one orgasm out of you with his tongue first before even beginning to think about his own stirring of his loins.

And that he did — curling his tongue deep within as your first orgasm washed over you. It was so incredibly hot, the way the sensation seemed to clutch at your womb before spreading throughout the rest of your body. Sukuna's mouth didn't stop, not until you were sobbing out weakly from overstimulation. It was only then he set you back down on the couch, casting his eyes down on the prominent tent both cocks had formed.

You noticed too — mustering up enough energy to sit up and tug at the drawstrings.

"Come here," you rasped. "Please."

Sukuna swallowed, nodding as the feeling of instability cascaded over him for the first time in weeks. But when he lowered himself down once more, forehead against yours as he freed both cocks — he felt anchored to you once more. His lips found yours, slow but steady in its movement, and you kissed back.

The sound of your lips on his, smacking and tugging eagerly filled the room, accompanied by a surprised yet pleased moan at the way you could taste yourself on his tongue. "You're shaking, Ryo."

"I know, I know," Sukuna whispered, drawing your lower lip into his mouth. "You have that effect on me, my dear."

His kisses resumed, all whilst a hand tangled in your hair before settling around your throat like a rosary. Sukuna didn't squeeze — he simply let his hand stay there, feeling the way your pulse felt so alive under his hand. He revelled in the way that he was the one making you feel like this.

When he finally pulled off of you with a final kiss to your temple, Sukuna's weeping tip smooched the entrance of where he so desperately wanted to be inside of. It caught against the rim of your hole, popping in ever so slightly before he backed off. It was too much for the man, his hips beginning to move on their own.

"You want this, right? Please tell me you do," he begged through gritted teeth. You clenched around Sukuna, trying your hardest to suck him back into your warmth.

"If you do not fuck me right now, I swear—"

Again, that was all the confirmation Sukuna needed. He only needed to use one cock, the upper one having been jerked off by one of his free hands.

A brief panic flooded you when he pushed in, pussy convulsing as you tried adjusting to his inhuman size. But you could handle it — Sukuna knew you could as his fourth hand travelled down to grope at a breast. He rolled a taut nipple under his palm while you clawed at his bare forearms, relishing in the mild pain before his fingers found your clit. The relief that flooded him was almost unbearable as your mild discomfort ebbed away into growing pleasure.

That was when Sukuna finally let go.

His name left your mouth half garbled as he bottomed out into you, your pussy stretching in ways it never had before.

"F-fuck, Ryo—"

Sukuna had to still, the two of you panting in near unison as you processed the feeling of his blunt head almost kissing against your cervix. Each plump vein adorning his cock had you fluttering around Sukuna, making him drop down and press his forehead to yours once more. His breathing came out ragged, four eyes having squeezed shut as he processed the feeling of being inside someone for the first time.

"You are so-so warm," he uttered. "You feel so alive."

You didn't have a chance to respond, hips bucking as Sukuna withdrew his hips. The dragging pull out of you felt like an eternity before he fucked back inside — making you feel each aching inch that he reserved for you alone. Sukuna watched the way your pussy clung onto him, etching the way it sucked him back into his memory.

Then, he saw the way your eyes threatened to shut on him, a blissed-out look crossing your face as his thrusts grew in tempo. Sukuna rolled your clit between his fingers, making you gasp sharply and come back to reality.

"Eyes on me," he drawled, hips not stopping for even a second. "I want to be the one you look at when— fuck, I make you fall apart on my cock."

You don't know where he had learned to talk like that, but it wasn't like you minded. After all, Sukuna had noticed you get increasingly more wet, making the glide all that more delicious as he rutted into you. The slick sounds of skin meeting skin filled the hut, obscene in all its glory. It felt primal, and Sukuna had truly never felt better.

At one point, Sukuna had lost himself so deep within the throes of pleasure, and his mouth had started to run. "Tell me, I need to hear it," he asked greedily, desperately. "Would you damn yourself for this? For me?"

A laugh left you, shaky and delirious as you nodded. "Yesyesyes, mmh. D-don't stop please," you gasped out, clutching onto Sukuna like he was your lifeline. "Heaven is right here with me, Ryo—"

That was all it took for Sukuna's entire pace to change. He fucked you like a man possessed, driven by the carnal need to mould your pussy to the shape of his thrusts. His upper cock leaked profusely, smearing the bulge in your belly with pearly white.

Heaven, heaven, absolute. Fucking. Heaven.

You had spoken the truth — it was right there with you both. Sukuna buried his flushed face in the crook of your neck, biting down with as much restraint as he could manage and littering your neck with a scattering of marks. "My salvation."

One hand splayed over your stomach, pressing down as you cried out for the nth time. Orgasms had bled into each other, until your nails had raked down the healed scars on Sukuna's back. It was that sensation alone that elicited a full body shudder from the former angel.

A warmth filled you up from the inside, your vision blacking out as you came alongside Sukuna. He stayed buried deep, having slotted his lips against yours but not moving. You were cocooned within his safe arms, your head cradled in one of his hands. You both twitched against each other, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm and taking in the way Sukuna's cock continued to leak steady roped of cum.

Neither of you moved right away either. Sukuna stayed where he was, half kneeling and half slumped over you.

Then he slid out of you, gently hushing you when you grimaced at the floods of cum that seeped out of your hole and leaked into the couch. Well, it was due time for it to be replaced anyway.

Despite having pulled out, Sukuna didn't stray too far away from you — taking a long moment to catch his breath with you seated firmly on his lap. Aftercare was a concept foreign to him, but he'd figure something out — somehow.

"You're very . . . quiet right now," you mumbled hoarsely, prodding fun at the man.

He did that thing again instead of laughing outright — exhaling through his nostrils in fond amusement. "I am listening to your heartbeat, my dear witch. Do not interrupt me now."

You grabbed one of his hands, placing it atop of your bare chest and letting him feel your pulse properly.

"Like this," you coaxed, looking up at him. The river outside continued to ebb and flow, the water curling against the riverbank the way your fingers did around Sukuna's tattooed wrist. He closed his eyes and hummed, relishing in calm after the storm.

For the very first time since his fall, Sukuna felt no pain in the silence that followed.

He had finally found salvation.

[killfarrell]

✭ sports captain!sukuna who finds himself completely whipped for the university's most untouchable and elusive student, law student!reader.

you're working out in the sports facility again, airpods in your ears as you do your RDLs and focus on engaging your glutes.

unbeknownst to you, there's someone who's eyes can't stop wandering over to you even as he tries to concentrate on his reps. who's subconsciously memorized nearly every aspect of your campus schedule and has been thinking (more like obsessing) over you for the past few weeks and strategizing how to ask you out when so many suitors have attempted and been turned down on the spot.

don't worry though, it's not some middle aged creep who's been stalking you around the city, or a scrappy freshman with no experience in exercising whatsoever who thinks he stands a chance at bagging you while barely passing any of his classes.

shockingly, it's the universities most pined after athlete, the sports captain, sukuna.

it's almost pathetic really, how you've been occupying such a vast amount of space in his mind while dozens of girls are practically lining up in his dms and kissing up to his ass. that's exactly his problem- why? why is he so damn consumed by you, when you barely ever give him the time of day?

but that's the answer to his question. it's because you don't acknowledge him that his mind has conditioned itself into hyperfixating on you. it's because you've never been to his games to cheer in the bleachers when he scores, or thrown yourself at him during his house parties, hell, he's never seen you at any party.

you're completely unbothered by him, and now he's utterly bothered by you.

so that's why he finally says fuck it and stands up from his workout bench, grabbing his phone and walking towards the pool area 5 minutes after you've left to finish off your workout with a few laps.

he sees you immediately, swimming back and forth in such an elegant way that his heart does a stutter that only serves to irritate the campus king even more as he practically stomps over to the pool's edge, nearly seething as he watches you swim towards it.

you're about to turn back around before you notice his towering frame over you and pause, your annoyingly alluring eyes staring up at him in tentative confusion, "... do you need something, sukuna?"

it's not fair how his breath hitches from the sound of his name on your lips, and he has to stop himself from staring at your mouth before he looks back up at your eyes and his words tumble out of his in an uncoordinated mess.

"yes, actually. look, i don't know how the hell to say this- but- these past weeks i've been fucking distracted, by you, and i don't know what the fuck to do about it. you're like a parasite that's latched onto my skull and keeps on digging into my brain and it's driving me insane- i mean- you don't even look at me and quite frankly you're one of the most beautiful girls i've ever seen and you're so fucking smart it's infuriating- so," he pauses briefly to catch his breath, dragging a hand over his face to collect himself as he sighs.

"what i'm asking is... would you wanna go on a date with me some time? i've been meaning to ask you for, i don't even know how long, so if you're gonna say no, please do it now so i can start forcing myself to get over yo-"

"okay."

sukuna stops in his tracks, mind going blank as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes, his mind reeling from the whiplash of your calm reply. "huh?"

you have to fight to keep the smirk off your lips as you repeat once again, slower as if talking to a confused child. "i said okay, give me your phone so i can put in my number."

as if not really believing it he scans your face before hesitantly opening up his contacts and handing his phone over, his brows furrowed in perplexity as he watches your manicured fingers move across the screen and you hand it back to him.

"text me in the evening so we can make plans, i'm free on tuesday."

sukuna's in a state of shock all the way back to his apartment. is this some kind if dream? a cruel joke played by the universe that he'll wake up from any second now?

well, as he steps into his shower half an hour later, it doesn't seem to be either. and before he can stop it the idiot can't stop himself from breaking out into a full blown grin. his teammates will never hear the end of this.

©killfarrell. all rights are reserved to me and plagiarism is prohibited and will be reported. hope you guys liked it!

[uzugeto]

FRAT BRO TURNED DAD OF THE YEAR

you're out of your element at one of the frat parties sukuna's hosting, left to your own devices for most of the night. one thing leads to another, you're in his bed tonight and with a positive test five weeks later?

01: DOUBLE SHOTS AND DOUBLE LINES

FEATURING: frat bro! ryomen sukuna x fem! reader

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. sukuna's kind of an asshole. fingering. unprotected p in v. tit sucking. throat grabbing (f receiving). doggy. belly bulge. unplanned pregnancy. implied talks about abortion.

NOTE: due to popular request (15 people who voted yes) this series is back :p will b reworking on some of the parts before posting them back up again and sorry again for the inconvenience!

frat parties were never really your scene.

always too loud, too sticky, too many people bunched up in one room like a pack of sardines to where you didn't know where the crowd ended and where it started. not even the alcohol was appealing: if you wanted a cheap beer that tasted like piss, you could easily go to the gas station near campus and buy it for two dollars.

many students lived with the thrill of finding the next party, of getting dressed up and losing themselves after a week of classes and exams. you never felt like you were missing out on much, never felt like you needed to go to one to complete your college experience. you were happy staying in your dorm, curled up with a book and a movie playing in the background.

and yet, here you were. standing in front of nu sigma kappa’s house on a friday night at 11 pm.

the air felt stifling just by stepping into the house: weed, beer, and sweat mixing in one putrid concoction that had your head spinning a minute in. every breath of oxygen almost felt stolen, lucky. your body rattled down to the very bone with each loud thrum of the bass, speakers penetrating through paper thin walls.

yelled conversations filled those empty pockets that the music wouldn’t quite fill, talks about ‘i missed you so much!’ echoing through the room. drunken promises about seeing one other after the party, about meeting up in the café outside of campus just to end up forgetting by the end of the night. lights flashed from every direction—red, green, and blue hues reflecting off a cheap disco ball blinding you the further you stepped in.

the people inside carried themselves with an ease you were almost envious of, completely in their element as they either lean against a wall with a red solo cup in hand or sprawled out over the few couches in the living room—fitting five people in a couch meant for three. you’re an outsider peering in, pretending you’re in the same boat.

that you frequented these parties as often as they did instead of usually spending your time cooped up in the library at 10 pm on a saturday. that you weren’t silently counting down the seconds until you called it a night.

the skirt you’d borrowed from your roommate, shoko, inches up with each sway of your hips, fingertips glued by your sides in an attempt to smooth the material down. you’re trying to fit into a costume and failing—low cut top itchy and uncomfortable against your body, strappy heels making your feet ache with each step, each strap cutting into the skin of your leg.

there’s nothing about this situation that feels like you, that makes you feel comfortable.

you’re only really here because of the guy you’re tutoring: ryomen sukuna.

his name touches a room before he ever does—in hushed whispers about the parties he’s thrown, the women he’s slept with, the many times that he’s been arrested spreading like wildfire. rumors that are too insane, bordering on criminal following each step that he took. the worst thing? he wouldn’t deny or confirm, just merely grunt about being left the hell alone.

still, there’s nowhere you can go without hearing about him in some way, shape, or form.

you only wished he was as dedicated to going over calculus equations as he was throwing parties. his grade had dropped down to a 36.7% when your professor had assigned you to help him out, ready to give you as much extra credit as was necessary to deal with a guy like him. no amount of it was ever enough to deal with the aching headache that you left with, but anything for your grade.

sukuna didn’t show up to your tutoring sessions half the time. making up some excuse of having a late night practice or simply saying he didn’t want to come only to see him on some sorority sister’s instagram story mere moments later. and the few times that he did manage to show up, he ended up showing thirty minutes later.

as smart as you were, you were anything but a miracle worker.

though, he’d been showing up more now that you had finals coming up. taking up more of your time despite not understanding derivatives and differentiation half the time. sukuna doesn’t take your time seriously, spending his time making fun of you and on his phone instead.

today had been no different. sukuna propped his feet up on the table, dangerously leaning back in his seat while he scrolled through some dumb shit on his phone. you could feel your patience fraying by the second, the book in your hands slamming shut. the librarian turned to look over, a scowl already painted on her features.

you made a mental note to go apologize later.

“are you just wasting my time here?” you bring yourself to ask in a hushed whisper shout. sukuna sets his phone face down, folding his arms across his chest.

“and what if i am? not like you got anythin’ important going on.” at that, you instantly got up from your chair. packing up your books, grumbling under your breath about assholes in fraternities, “spending money to get hazed like an idiot, thinking he’s the shit when he’s not even a toot…”

pushing your backpack over your shoulders, you reach over to pick up the rest of your stuff off the table. phone, chapstick, the last of your dignity. the chair across from you scrapes against the floor, sukuna getting up and approaching you. “alright, my bad. clearly you do have more important shit going on than tutoring me.” he looks uncomfortable with each word that leaves his lips.

good.

“let me make it up to you. frat’s hosting a party this saturday, goin’ to be drinks, you should let loose. i’ll get you in for free.” you should’ve ignored the offer. you’re sure he wouldn’t have noticed if you did. but here you were. standing in a room full of people you don’t know with music that’s making your head throb.

you make your way over to the kitchen, passing through the throng of people standing around, digging through one of the coolers. there’s a specific cooler designated just for twisted tea and trulys, you quickly come to learn. another one just for cans of budweiser and corona. neither one is appealing.

“could make you a rum n’ coke if beer isn’t in your palate, princess.” you hear behind you, turning to see sukuna leaning against the counter with mild amusement.

“please.” sukuna slinks off the counter, grabbing a bottle from a cabinet near the sink. it’s nearly half full, hidden away from the rest of the people hanging around the house. he takes a cup, pouring in a bit of coke before filling the rest of it with rum.

a small spark passes through your body when his fingertips graze against your own. you take a tentative sip from the cup, the taste of rum burning down your throat as it overpowers the slight tinges of coke mixed in.

“good?”

“fucking burns,” you let out a hoarse whisper, taking another sip from your cup regardless, “but yeah, good.”

sukuna approaches you like a predator stalking up on its prey, leaning against the counter next to you. he leans his head down in a way that has most sorority sisters (and you) clenching their thighs together, leaning down like you’re the only two people in the room. “i didn’t think you’d come.”

you down the rest of the shot in one gulp, setting the cup beside you. “i didn’t think i’d come either. it’s not really my scene, but… it’s nice seeing you.”

“you know her?” one of his frat bros breaks through your conversation, a teasing smirk on his face as he gives you a once over.

“this nerd?” sukuna pulls away from you almost instantly, the lack of his presence next to you leaving a pout on your gloss covered lips. a snort left his lips at the ridiculous notion, “nah, tellin’ her the book club’s halfway across campus.”

you’re left alone yet again after sukuna pretends you don’t even exist—pretends like he’s not the one who even suggested you come out to this place in the first place. and maybe you’re stubborn, unwilling to take a clue, but you decide to stick it out. talk to a few people you had a class with, pretend like you wanted to be in a conversation as the hours ticked by.

the shortest dude in the frat stands up on the burgundy futon in the living room at around three in the morning, cupping his hands around his mouth, "if you ain't a brother or fucking with a brother, get out! you don't gotta go home but you can't stay here!"

everyone around you begins to disperse, leaving in small groups. already talking about a darty being hosted the next morning. half empty cups line up the edges of the table, scattered cans crinkled on the floor. a few people are left making out on the couch, unaware of their surroundings. you toss your empty cup away in a trash bin, pulling your phone out of your purse to get ready to leave.

you’re mentally contemplating if the $20 uber trip is worth it when you feel a hand resting against the small of your back. the familiar scent of dior sauvage infiltrates your nostrils, sukuna’s body heat seeping in from the proximity. his head drops down, his lips against your ear in a way that has a shiver running down your spine, “you wanna fuck with a brother?”

as corny as that line was, it worked.

you follow him up the stairs to the last door at the end of the hall, the biggest room in the entire frat. while the rest of the house is bathed in chaos and muck, his space was relatively clean.

an actual bed with a headboard with bedsheets (wow) pushed against the wall in the middle of the room, a couple posters from bands you don’t recognize lining up his walls.

sukuna doesn’t give you the chance to look at his choice of decor for long—hoisting you up against the door as soon as you step in. your legs wrap around his waist, fingers digging into his broad shoulders while his hips roll onto your panty-clad pussy—letting you feel how hard he is for you.

for the nerd he’s not supposed to be attracted to.

his lips move down, kissing his way down the sensitive skin of your neck. your head flies back, more of yourself exposed to his greedy, fervent touch. large hands move down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake as he lifts your shirt over your head.

you’re left in a lace bra you’d picked out on a whim at victoria secret, a red piece that barely manages to cover your nipples. sukuna moves a finger underneath the strap, pulling back just enough for it to sting.

“look at ya. like you were hoping you’d get fucked, fucking slut,” he taunts, reaching back, unclipping your bra with an ease you’re almost envious of before tossing it to the side.

sukuna takes one of your tits in his mouth, tongue swirling around your peaked nub. his other hand snakes in between your legs, rubbing two thick fingers against the slick front of your panties and tracing your folds through the wet fabric. “want it that bad? you’re fucking dripping.”

“a-ah yeah, please,” you’re moaning already, nodding along like a bobblehead. his fingers push your slick panties to the side, the two pumping inside of your dripping cunt. your back arches with the curl of his fingers, your pussy swallowing the digits.

sukuna pumps his fingers in and out of you quickly, your cunt gushing and squelching around him. his mouth latches onto your tit, suctioning his lips around the sensitive skin while his tongue flicks at your erect nipple. “a-ah fuck, so so good,” you’re babbling, one of your hands tangling in his hair.

his thick fingers move in a scissoring motion, spreading you wider and wiiider. his hips buck up into your cunt, thick cock imprinted in the material of his jeans. your hips move against his fingers, pushing them deeper inside of you while his mouth moves onto your other tit.

his thumb rolls against your clit, pushing you to your incoming orgasm. “you wanna cum?” sukuna’s lips move up the column on your neck, his tongue tracing your jugular. “yeah, wanna cum,” you whine in response, your pussy tightening up around his fingers.

“cum, then.” your head flies back against the door at the command, your toes curling in your heels. his fingers pump inside once, then twice before you’re spurting around his fingers, drenching him in your release. sukuna slides his fingers out of your pussy, tapping them against your mouth.

your tongue darts out, tasting yourself on them before they slide in bewteen your lips. it glides up and down his fingers, swirling around his fingertips before you release off them with a loud pop!

he slides his shirt off with one hand, pushing it over his head. he’s ripped. you’d felt, of course you’d felt it, but it was a different thing seeing just how big his biceps were—practically the size of your head, how defined his abs were from extensive training.

“like what you see?” he notices your stare, the question snapping out of it. there’s already a cocky smirk on his face, his fingers working on unbuttoning his 501s and sliding his belt off the loops.

“y-you’re conventionally attractive,” you retort in defense, “with nice proportions and all tha….” the words die off when you see him push his boxers down, his cock slapping against his stomach upon being released. it’s long, about eight inches, with a girth that rivals the width of your wrist.

precum glistens and drips off the flushed tip, drip drip drip. you hoist yourself up on your knees and elbows, your back arched and ass up in the air. “my dick conventionally attractive too?” he teased, his dick swaying back n’ forth with each step he took closer to the bed.

“mhm, it’s pretty.” a low chuckle leaves his lips at your quiet admission. he wraps his hand around the base, jerking himself off once before he lines himself up. your eyes scrunch tightly at the stretch, thick mushroom tip splitting your folds apart as he pushes in. sukuna molds your pussy to the shape of his cock, pushing inch after inch inside.

he bottoms out, balls snug against your ass before pulling out, pushing back into you in one swift thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs. each one that follows is slow but deep, your nails digging into the bedsheets below. only when you’re ready to take more is that he speeds up, his pace punishing from the beginning.

there’s nothing romantic about the way sukuna fucks. his cock pounds into you like your pussy owes him money. your ass jiggles back against him, moving back against him in an attempt to meet his thrusts. his fingers dig into the supple skin of your hips, leaving himself imprinted in nearly every way possible.

the music drowns out your muffled moans, your nails digging onto the sheets beside you. “f-fuck, you’re in deep!” you whine out, head buried into the pillows while he bullies his tip against your g-spot.

“yeah? feel how fucking deep i am.” he takes your hand, pressing against your lower belly where his tip’s bulging out. cock drunk and fucked out, you nod your head along. there’s nothing in your head but sukuna, nothing other than just how good he’s fucking into you.

his hand wraps around your throat, not enough to choke you, but enough to turn your face towards him. he exchanges a sloppy kiss, strings of saliva connecting you to him. his tongue pushes past your plush lips, your moans swallowed by his mouth like the finest of drinks.

you chase after his lips when he pulls away, a mocking laugh leaving his lips. “you want a kiss that bad?” he all but pouts in the same way you are, giving your lips one quick peck before he finally manages to pulls away.

he plants one of his feet on the plush mattress, his hands pulling your body back towards him like a ragdoll while his cock drills into you. "oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! kuna, right there, fuck me!" the wooden headboard smacks against the wall with each brutal thrust of hips, rattling a couple things cluttering up his bed stand. drool spits from the corner of your lips, your eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy.

one of his hands moves down in between your legs, fingertips rubbing against your clit in quick little circles. while your previous orgasm had been a slow build of his fingers, his mouth, feeling him everywhere at once, this one hits you quick and hard. “oh fuck, kuna!” you drench his cock, spilling out onto the sheets underneath.

your legs shake and quiver with the trembles of the aftershock of your release, your knees threatening to give out under you. sukuna keeps a hand on the small of your back, keeping you in that arch while he sloppily thrusts into you. he's quicker now, his thrusts shallow while his balls tighten up with his impending orgasm.

“c’mon, slut. take. every. fucking—” he punctuates each word with a harsh thrust, his cock twitching inside of you, “—drop.”

thick after thick spurts of cum coat your inside white, his cock pushing it all that much deeper into your womb. your walls clenched tightly around his shaft, milking him for all his worth. he pulls out his softening cock after a couple seconds, giving your ass a singular tap to let you know he was done.

cum trickles down your legs in milky trails as you shove your panties back on, trying to get dressed as quickly as you can. the party’s died down outside, lights shut off and halls quiet. you pull your skirt back on, your back turned towards him.

sukuna pulls up his boxers, plopping down on the mattress. he’s fiddling with a lighter, waiting until you’re about to leave to speak, “i’ll see you for our tutoring sesh.”

you, in fact, don’t see him for your tutoring session. avoiding him becomes an active effort, slinking between corners of the halls to avoid seeing him on the off chance you stumble upon him. what were you supposed to say to the guy who’d been buried deep within your guts just a few days back?

nothing, that’s what.

in all honesty, you want to forget that you hooked up with him in the first place. with the guy who didn't think you were good enough to be seen in public with him, but good enough to be fucking around with in between closed doors. he'd been a mistake, that's all that it was. 

it takes a few weeks for you to notice the changes. you were trying to forget about sukuna that you didn't take into account what actually went down that night. you’d dismissed your late period with the stress from upcoming finals week. you’d dismissed your increased appetite on that very same stress, odd cravings at midnight under that same pretense. but then came the things you couldn’t dismiss so easily.

sleeping in halfway through the day, often times missing most of your morning classes, if not all. having to go pee nearly every five minutes. feeling nauseous at just the pungent scent of fried food stands lining the streets, throwing up in your mouth just the littlest bit.

the positive pregnancy test in your hand does nothing to ease your worries, does nothing to soothe your soul. it only serves to affirm what you’d been dreading with each day your period didn’t come. what were you supposed to do? could you even afford keeping a baby?

you’d already mourned the $30 you’d spent on an abundance of pregnancy tests—only to get the same result each and every time.

it wasn’t impossible—raising a kid on top of an already heavy course load. many of the older adults in your classes managed. but you truly didn’t know what to do in that moment, nothing other than sinking down on your bathroom floor while willing the second line to be a mistake. willing that somehow all five tests on your bathroom counter were false positives.

you spend nearly half an hour with your head buried in your hands, processing the results. there’s a fetus growing inside of you. a fetus from a guy you’ve barely exchanged two conversations with before he pretended he didn’t know you. with a guy you’re certain couldn’t be paternal if his life depended on it.

your roommate comes home to find you in the shared bathroom, plopping down on the floor next to you. shoko’s nothing if not attentive, lightly rubbing your shoulder. “you should tell him. he deserves that much,” she whispered, wrapping an arm around you.

“can i just stay here for right now?” the thought of having to face him made you all that much more nauseous. of having to actually voice the fact that you’d gotten pregnant by ryomen sukuna. if you didn’t say it, it wasn’t real just yet.

“stay here as long as you need. i’m not going anywhere either.” shoko stayed by your side throughout the night, offering to buy takeout and watch a movie. the dread remained buried deep inside despite each forced laugh that left your lips at the right moments of the movie.

the next couple days, you spend your time trying to figure out how you should break the news. pinterest hasn’t been that much help, offering ideas from a corny gift basket to a onesie saying ‘you’re a daddy!’ how ridiculous.

however, you don’t get much time to think about it. sukuna approaches you at the library on a day you’re supposed to be studying the anatomy of a dolphin. he looms over your table, his arms folded across his chest. “you’re avoiding me.” he almost sounds pissed off, his voice gruff.

of course, it only happens when no one else is around to notice the two of you interacting.

you meet his gaze, your mouth opening before shutting back again. the words die in your tongue about four times before you manage to spit them out, “i’m pregnant.” digging through your sweater, you take out one of the many tests in a plastic bag.

sukuna malfunctions at that very moment, every connection linked to the motherboard severed off. he blinks slowly, barely registering the two dark lines on the pregnancy test you’d handed over. he looks from you over to the test, and then back to you again. like you were the crazy one here.

eventually, after the shock managed to wear off, he digs through his brown leather wallet. fishing out the couple hundred dollar bills that were meant to be used for this week’s supply of beer.

“aye look, you’re hot and all,” he speaks up, clearing his throat. sukuna grabs your hand, placing the crumpled up money in your palm, “but i ain’t ready to be a dad.”

[seoyue]

the butcher’s bride!

synopsis: You ran from your arranged marriage in a torn white wedding dress, desperate to escape the cruel lord your family sold you to. By midnight, you’re on your knees in front of the village butcher, begging for shelter. Toji Fushiguro doesn’t help runaways. But when you blurt out that he’s your husband in front of the biggest gossips in town, suddenly the whole village believes you’re his. Now you’re trapped in a fake marriage with the terrifying butcher — a massive, rough, possessive man who has decided that if you’re going to call yourself his wife… he’s going to make it very, very real.

pairing: butcher!toji fushiguro x runaway bride!reader

mdni | warnings: smut, first time, size kink, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, rough sex, possessive/jealous Toji, dirty talk, spanking, manhandling, strength kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), fingering, spitting, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, fake marriage

word count: 14.8k

a/n: im kinda obsessed with this ngl... also lmk if your enjoying these longer fics!

The great hall of your family estate felt more like a tomb than a place of celebration.

Thick beams of dark oak loomed overhead, and the air was heavy with the greasy smell of over-roasted venison, spilled sour wine, and your father’s desperation. Two massive iron chandeliers flickered with dying candles, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the walls. Servants had long since been dismissed, leaving only the three of you: your father, Lord Kato, and you — the silent prize being traded away.

Your father slumped in his carved high-backed chair, cheeks bloated and flushed deep red from too much drink. His once-fine tunic was stained with grease and wine. With a trembling hand, he slid the sealed parchment across the table. The wax bore your family’s broken crest.

“She’s untouched,” he slurred, trying and failing to sound proud. “Barely nineteen summers. Fertile. She’ll give you strong sons, I swear it. Obedient when properly disciplined. This marriage settles every debt between our houses — the gold, the eastern lands, the failed harvests… all of it wiped clean.”

Lord Kato sat across from him like a spider in human skin. Tall and unnaturally pale, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of frozen ink. His lips curled into a thin, cruel smile as he let his gaze crawl over your body without shame. He studied the swell of your breasts beneath your gown, the narrow dip of your waist, the way your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The way you trembled.

He took a slow sip of wine, then spoke, voice smooth and cold as winter steel.

“She’ll do nicely. The ceremony will take place tomorrow night at my estate. I expect her delivered in the finest white lace and silk… and nothing beneath it.” His smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. “I want easy access the moment the guests leave. I’ve waited long enough for my new bride.”

You stood motionless in the center of the hall, heart pounding so violently you could hear it in your ears. Your skin crawled as if his eyes were already peeling the gown from your body. Nausea twisted in your stomach. This man had already buried three wives. Whispers spoke of bruises, broken bones, and screams that echoed through his halls at night. And now your own father was selling you to him for coin and land.

No one asked if you agreed.

No one asked what you wanted.

No one ever had.

You kept your face blank, eyes lowered like the obedient daughter they expected, while inside your mind screamed.

Later that night, when the household finally fell into drunken slumber and the torches burned low, you moved.

You had planned this in secret for weeks. A plain dark wool cloak stolen from the stables. A small bundle of hard bread, dried cheese, and a waterskin. Soft leather shoes you hoped would last. But the most valuable thing you owned was the wedding gown itself. You had decided to wear the half-finished white dress during your escape — the expensive satin and delicate lace might fetch enough coins in a distant village to buy you passage far away from here. It was risky, but you had nothing else of real value.

You slipped out through the narrow servant’s entrance at the back of the kitchens, the heavy door groaning softly behind you like a warning. The moment your feet touched the cold, dew-soaked grass, terror and fragile hope surged through you in equal measure.

You ran.

The forest swallowed you whole.

Ancient trees loomed like silent judges, their branches clawing at your white gown as if trying to drag you back. The delicate satin — still only half-finished, with pins and loose threads — snagged mercilessly on thorns. You heard fabric tearing again and again: sharp rips that sounded far too loud in the darkness. The long lace veil caught on a low limb and nearly yanked you off your feet; you tore it free with shaking hands, leaving half of it fluttering behind you like a surrendered flag. Mud and wet leaves caked your bare feet. Sharp stones and roots sliced into your soles until every step left bloody prints in the dirt. The cold night air burned your lungs. Sweat soaked your back and chest despite the chill, making the torn gown cling obscenely to your skin. Your legs screamed with exhaustion after only an hour, but fear kept you moving. Behind you, distant shouts echoed through the trees — your father’s guards, torches flickering like angry fireflies. Dogs barked. They were coming.

You pushed harder.

Branches whipped your face, leaving stinging cuts across your cheeks. Your hair fell loose from its elegant pins, wild and tangled. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with blood and dirt. Every shadow looked like a man ready to grab you. Every snap of a twig made your heart seize. You ran until your vision blurred and your chest felt like it would burst. You ran until the shouts grew fainter and the trees finally began to thin.

Hours had passed. The moon hung high and merciless overhead, bathing the world in cold silver light. Your legs trembled violently as you stumbled out of the treeline onto a wide, muddy road. In the distance, warm golden lantern light glowed between clusters of simple wooden buildings. A village.

You nearly collapsed with relief.

The main street was deserted, shutters closed tight against the night. Only one building still showed signs of life. Warm light spilled from its open front door onto the dirt road, carrying with it the thick, metallic scent of fresh blood and raw meat. A weathered wooden sign creaked overhead in the cold breeze:

Fushiguro Meat Co.

You limped toward it, every cut and bruise screaming.

A massive man stood under the wooden awning, illuminated by the lantern light. He was enormous — broad as a barn door, easily over six feet tall, with shoulders and arms so thick with muscle they looked carved from stone. He wore a blood-streaked leather apron tied low on his narrow hips. Beneath it, a simple white tank clung to his sweat-slicked chest, the thin fabric molded to heavy slabs of muscle and dark, scattered scars. His black hair was damp and messy, strands falling across his forehead. A deep, jagged scar twisted the corner of his mouth, giving his face a permanent, dangerous smirk even when he wasn’t smiling.

Thick veins stood out on his forearms as he slowly wiped a long, wicked boning knife clean on the edge of his apron. The blade gleamed.

He looked like violence given human shape — raw, brutal, and utterly terrifying.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know anything about him except that he was the only soul still awake, and you were completely out of options.

Your legs gave out the final few steps. You dropped hard to your knees in the cold dirt right in front of him, the torn white satin of your ruined wedding gown pooling around you like spilled milk mixed with blood and mud. Your chest heaved. Fresh tears cut clean tracks down your filthy cheeks.

“Please—” Your voice came out cracked and hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Hide me. Just for one night. My family… they sold me to Lord Kato to settle their debts. He’s going to break me. Hurt me in ways I can’t even speak of. I’ll do anything you ask — scrub floors until my hands bleed, haul carcasses, sleep in the cold room with the meat, be your servant, your cleaner… anything. Just please… don’t let them take me back.”

You bowed your head, trembling, and clutched desperately at the bloody hem of his apron with both hands, staining your fingers red.

The man stopped moving. He looked down at you slowly, sharp green eyes narrowing as they took in every detail: your torn and filthy wedding dress, the cuts on your face and feet, the desperate tears, the way you knelt before him like a supplicant before a god of slaughter.

He flicked the long knife shut with a loud, metallic click that echoed in the quiet street.

“Not my problem, princess,” he rumbled. His voice was deep, low, and rough — like gravel being dragged across stone. There was no pity in it. “I don’t hide runaways. Go beg somewhere else before you bring trouble to my shop.”

You stayed on your knees, fingers still twisted tight in the bloody hem of his apron. Tears kept falling, mixing with the dirt on your cheeks. “Please… I have nowhere else. They’ll find me by morning. Lord Kato will—”

Footsteps. Soft, quick, coming from the narrow alley beside the butcher shop.

Three women emerged into the lantern light, their shawls pulled tight against the night chill, each carrying a small lantern. They stopped short at the sight of you kneeling in your ruined white gown in front of the massive butcher.

“Gods above,” the tallest one gasped. “Is that a wedding dress? Child, what in the world happened to you?”

The women hurried closer, lanterns swinging. Warm golden light spilled over your torn satin, the mud-caked hem, the blood from his apron smeared across your bodice and hands. One of the younger women pressed a hand to her mouth. “She’s bleeding… and look at her feet!”

You looked down at yourself — the once-beautiful dress now filthy and shredded — then up at the stranger towering over you. His green eyes were narrowed in clear irritation, jaw clenched like he was seconds away from shoving you into the street and bolting the door.

A wild, desperate plan came to your mind.

You pushed yourself up on shaky legs, ignoring the sharp pain in your cut feet. Before he could step away, you grabbed his large, calloused hand with both of yours, clinging desperately. His palm was warm, rough, and still faintly sticky with dried blood.

Turning to the three women with the most exhausted yet radiant smile you could force, you announced clearly:

“This is my husband.”

The words rang in the quiet night air.

The women froze.

You kept going, voice trembling but determined. “We were married in secret this evening. My family didn’t approve — they tried to sell me off to a cruel lord to settle their debts. So I ran away through the forest to reach him. The dress… it got ruined on the way, but I’m here now. I’m exactly where I belong.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat.

Then the women erupted.

“The butcher got married?!” the tallest one exclaimed, eyes wide. “Toji Fushiguro actually took a wife? I never thought I’d live to see the day!”

One of the younger women clapped her hands together, beaming. “Look at her, even all torn up she’s lovely! Brave thing, running through the woods in the middle of the night just to get to her husband.”

The third woman laughed warmly. “We’ll bring fresh bread and some stew first thing in the morning for you newlyweds. Can’t have Toji’s new wife going hungry on her first day here!”

Toji.

So that was his name. Toji Fushiguro.

You felt the man — Toji — stiffen beside you. His massive hand twitched hard in your grip, muscles flexing like he was fighting the urge to rip free and deny everything. His sharp green eyes burned into the side of your face, dark with fury and silent threat. But the women were watching excitedly. The whole village would know the story by sunrise if he contradicted you now.

You squeezed his hand tighter, nails digging into his skin in a silent, desperate plea. Please. Just play along.

Toji’s scarred jaw flexed. A low, dangerous growl rumbled deep in his chest. For one terrifying second you thought he might expose you.

Then, in the flattest, most reluctant voice you had ever heard, he grunted:

“…Yeah. She’s mine now. Wife.”

The women squealed with delight. They offered more congratulations, promised gifts for the “newlyweds,” and finally bustled away down the dark street, lanterns bobbing and their voices already carrying the juicy news.

The moment their footsteps faded, Toji’s grip turned bruising. He yanked you forward so hard you stumbled against his broad, solid chest, then dragged you roughly through the open door of the butcher shop. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind you with a resounding thud that rattled the walls.

Inside, the air was thick and heavy — cold iron, raw meat, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of fresh blood. A single lantern burned low on the wooden counter, casting long, flickering shadows over heavy chopping blocks, hanging meat hooks, and rows of sharp knives.

Toji spun you around and shoved your back against the closed door. One thick, powerful forearm braced beside your head, completely caging you in. His massive body loomed over yours, heat rolling off him in waves. The scent of blood, sweat, and raw masculinity filled your lungs.

His green eyes were dark with fury… and something much darker, much hungrier.

“What the fuck was that?” he snarled, voice low and lethal. “You just told half the goddamn village you’re my wife. You got any idea what you’ve done, little runaway?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the sheer size of him making you feel tiny and trapped.

“It was the only way,” you whispered, breathing fast. “They would’ve dragged me back to Lord Kato by morning if they knew the truth. Now they think I belong to you. No one will question it. Please… just let me stay the night. I’ll disappear at dawn, I swear it.”

Toji stared down at you for a long, heavy moment. His scarred mouth twisted into a slow, dangerous smirk. His free hand came up and gripped your chin firmly, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his intense green eyes.

“Disappear?” he growled, thumb pressing hard into your jaw. “Too late for that, princess. You just tied yourself to me in front of witnesses.”

He leaned in closer, so close his breath ghosted hot across your lips. His voice dropped even lower, rough and full of promise.

“You owe me now. Big time.”

His gaze dragged slowly down your body — over the torn white lace barely clinging to your curves, the bloodstains, the way your chest heaved with fear and adrenaline. He just held you there, pinned against the door, letting the heavy tension coil tighter and tighter between you.

“Upstairs,” he finally ordered, voice like gravel. “Now. We’re gonna have a long talk about what you just got yourself into.”

Toji didn’t give you time to argue.

His massive hand clamped around your upper arm like a steel band and he hauled you away from the door. You stumbled after him on aching, bleeding feet as he dragged you through the back of the shop. The scent of raw meat grew thicker near the cold room, but he turned toward a narrow wooden staircase tucked behind a heavy curtain.

“Move,” he growled when you hesitated at the bottom step.

You climbed. Each step sent fresh pain shooting up your legs, but you bit your lip and kept going. Toji followed close behind, his heavy boots loud on the old wood, one hand still gripping your arm so you couldn’t possibly run.

The stairs opened directly into a small, sparse apartment above the butcher shop. It was surprisingly clean for a man who spent his days covered in blood. A single main room served as both living space and kitchen — a sturdy wooden table with two chairs, a stone hearth with dying embers, a few shelves holding jars of preserved meat and dried herbs. A narrow hallway led to what you assumed were the bedroom and washroom. Moonlight spilled through two small windows, painting everything in cool silver.

Toji kicked the door at the top of the stairs shut behind him and finally released your arm. You immediately backed up a few steps, the torn hem of your wedding dress whispering across the floorboards.

He folded his thick arms across his broad chest, blood-stained apron still tied around his waist, and stared at you like you were a problem he was deciding how to carve up.

“Start talking,” he said flatly. “And don’t leave anything out. Who the fuck are you, why is a lord hunting you, and why the hell did you decide to drag me into your mess?”

You swallowed hard, still catching your breath. You introduced yourself by name, then continued quietly, “My family is in debt. Deep debt. They sold me to Lord Kato yesterday to settle it. He’s a cruel man. Three wives before me, and none of them lasted long. He told my father in front of me what he plans to do on our wedding night.” Your voice cracked. “I couldn’t stay. I ran in the only thing of value I had — this dress. I thought maybe I could sell it in a village for enough coin to disappear.”

Toji’s green eyes flicked over the ruined white lace clinging to your body — torn, muddy, bloodstained. He let out a low, humorless snort.

“And instead of keeping your mouth shut and hiding somewhere quiet, you decided the best plan was to announce to the biggest gossips in the village that you’re married to the local butcher.” He took one heavy step closer. “You realize what you’ve done?”

You nodded quickly. “They won’t hand me over now. Not if they think I belong to you. The whole village will protect the butcher’s wife… right?”

Toji laughed — a short, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Protect?” He shook his head. “You just painted a target on my back too, princess. Lord Kato isn’t the type to let his property run off. When he comes looking — and he will come looking — he’s going to hear all about how the village butcher stole his bride.”

He dragged a large hand down his face, clearly pissed off, but there was something else in his expression now. A glint of dark amusement. Maybe even reluctant interest.

“You’re either the bravest idiot I’ve ever met… or the most cunning.”

You stood there trembling in the middle of his living room, arms wrapped around yourself. The torn bodice of the dress had slipped dangerously low on your shoulders, but you didn’t dare fix it.

“I’ll leave at first light,” you promised again, softer this time. “I won’t cause you any more trouble. Just… let me stay until sunrise. Please, Toji.”

Hearing his name from your lips made his eyes narrow.

“Don’t,” he warned. “You don’t get to say my name like we’re actually married.”

He turned away from you and walked over to the small hearth. He crouched down, added two fresh logs, and stoked the fire back to life with practiced efficiency. The warm orange glow slowly filled the room, chasing away some of the chill.

When he stood again, he looked even bigger in the firelight — shoulders impossibly wide, muscles shifting under the thin tank top, the scar at his mouth pulling as he scowled.

“Sit,” he ordered, nodding toward one of the wooden chairs at the table. “You’re bleeding all over my floor.”

You obeyed, lowering yourself carefully onto the chair. The moment you sat, exhaustion crashed into you like a wave. Your feet throbbed. Every cut and bruise ached. You were filthy, terrified, and running on nothing but fear and adrenaline.

Toji disappeared down the short hallway and returned a minute later with a metal basin, a clean rag, and a small jar. He set the basin on the floor in front of you, then dropped into the chair across the table, watching you with those sharp green eyes.

“Clean your feet,” he said gruffly. “I’m not carrying you around if they get infected.”

You dipped the rag into the water and started wiping away the mud and blood as carefully as you could. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. The fire crackled. Outside, the village was completely quiet.

Toji leaned back in his chair, arms crossed again, studying you like livestock.

“You really think this marriage story is gonna hold?” he asked after a long minute. “Village folk love to talk. By noon tomorrow everyone’s gonna want to meet my mysterious bride.”

You kept your eyes on your injured feet. “I just need a day or two to figure out where to go next. I can… I can work. I’m not useless. I can clean, cook, help in the shop—”

Toji’s low chuckle cut you off.

“You? Working in a butcher shop?” He shook his head. “You look like you’ve never touched anything bloodier than a sewing needle in your life.”

He watched you struggle to clean a deep cut on your sole for another moment before he made an irritated sound and leaned forward.

“Give me your foot.”

You hesitated.

“Now,” he growled.

You slowly lifted your leg. Toji took your ankle in his huge, rough hand — surprisingly gentle despite the calluses and dried blood on his fingers. He pulled the basin closer and started cleaning your wounds himself with careful, efficient movements.

The contrast was jarring: this terrifying mountain of a man, covered in someone else’s blood, carefully tending to your torn-up feet.

“You’re staying the night,” he said quietly, not looking up from his work. “Not because I’m kind. Because if I throw you out now, those three hens will ask questions I don’t feel like answering. Tomorrow we figure out what the hell to do with you.”

He finished cleaning one foot and moved to the other. His thumb brushed accidentally over a sensitive spot and you hissed softly.

Toji’s eyes flicked up to your face for a second, something unreadable flashing across his expression.

“After that…” He set your foot down carefully and leaned back again, voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. “You’re gonna start paying off the trouble you just caused me.”

He didn’t explain what that meant.

But the way he was looking at you — slow, heavy, possessive — made heat crawl up your neck despite the fear.

Toji held your gaze for another long moment before he finally released your ankle. He pushed the basin aside with his boot and stood, towering over you once more. The firelight danced across the hard lines of his face, catching on the jagged scar at the corner of his mouth.

“Stay there,” he muttered.

He disappeared into the back room again. You heard the sound of water splashing, then heavy footsteps returning. When he came back, he carried a thick wool blanket and a tin cup. He set the cup in front of you — it was filled with cool water — and dropped the blanket over the back of your chair.

“Drink,” he ordered. “You look half-dead.”

You obeyed without thinking, your hands still trembling slightly as you lifted the cup. The water was clean and cold, soothing your raw throat. Toji watched you drink the entire thing, arms crossed, before he spoke again.

You lowered the empty cup. “Thank you… for the water. And for cleaning my feet.”

He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, like thanks made him uncomfortable. Then he leaned against the edge of the table, close enough that his thigh nearly brushed your arm.

“You really thought this through?” he asked, voice low. “Running in a fancy white dress, announcing yourself as my wife in front of the nosiest women in the village… What’s your actual plan once the sun comes up?”

You stared down at your bandaged feet. “I didn’t have time for a real plan. I just knew I couldn’t let them marry me off to that monster. I thought if I could get far enough away, maybe sell the dress, I could buy passage on a cart or a boat. Start over somewhere no one knows me.”

Toji exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but darker. “Selling that dress would’ve gotten you robbed or worse before you even reached the next town. You’re lucky you only made it as far as my doorstep.”

Silence settled again, broken only by the crackling fire. You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed you still were — the torn bodice of the wedding gown hanging loosely, the lace ripped in several places, dirt and dried blood streaked across your skin.

Toji’s eyes drifted over you again, slower this time. They lingered on the curve of your shoulder where the dress had slipped, the rise and fall of your chest, the way the white fabric clung to your thighs.

“You look ridiculous,” he said bluntly. “Like a bride who lost a fight with a pack of wolves.”

Despite everything, a tiny, tired smile tugged at your lips. “That’s… not far from the truth.”

He pushed off the table and walked over to a wooden chest in the corner. He rummaged inside and pulled out a large, worn linen shirt — clearly one of his. It looked big enough to reach your knees.

“Here.” He tossed it to you. “Can’t have you walking around my place looking like that. Change. There’s a washroom down the hall if you want to clean up more.”

You clutched the shirt to your chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “You’re still in my house. Still wearing that damn dress that’s going to bring trouble to my door.”

He turned his back to give you a moment of privacy, busying himself by adding another log to the fire. You quickly stood, wincing at the pain in your feet, and slipped behind the partial wall that separated the washroom. You peeled off the ruined wedding dress with shaking hands, letting the torn fabric pool at your feet. The cool air kissed your bare skin as you pulled Toji’s shirt over your head. It smelled faintly of smoke, soap, and something unmistakably masculine. The hem fell halfway down your thighs.

When you stepped back out, Toji turned around. His eyes darkened the moment they landed on you in his shirt.

“Better,” he grunted, though his voice sounded rougher than before.

He gestured toward the narrow hallway. “Bedroom’s at the end. Only one bed. You take it tonight. I’ll sleep out here.”

You hesitated. “I can sleep on the floor. I’ve already caused enough—”

“Don’t argue,” he cut you off. “My house, my rules. Get some sleep. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

You walked carefully down the short hall, every step still painful. The bedroom was small and simple like the rest of the apartment — a large wooden bed with thick blankets, a single chair, and a window overlooking the dark village street. You climbed onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself.

Toji appeared in the doorway a minute later, leaning one broad shoulder against the frame. The firelight from the main room silhouetted his massive form.

“Door stays open,” he said. “And don’t even think about sneaking out in the middle of the night. If I have to chase you down, I won’t be in a generous mood.”

You nodded, sinking deeper into the mattress. Exhaustion was pulling at you hard now, but sleep still felt far away with him standing there watching you.

“Toji…” you whispered.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” you said again, softer. “For not throwing me out.”

His expression didn’t soften, but something in his eyes shifted. He pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave.

“Get some sleep, runaway,” he muttered. “You’re gonna need it.”

He left the door wide open. You heard him moving around in the main room — the creak of the wooden chair as he sat down, the quiet clink of a cup. The fire continued to crackle.

You lay there in his bed, wrapped in his shirt, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on you. The fake marriage. The village women who now believed you were his wife. Lord Kato still out there searching. And the terrifying, strangely careful butcher who had just tended to your wounds and given you his bed.

Sleep finally claimed you, but even in your dreams you could still feel the heavy weight of Toji’s gaze on your skin.

You woke to the sound of knocking.

It was loud, cheerful, and relentless — three sharp raps on the shop door downstairs, followed by muffled feminine voices. Sunlight streamed through the small bedroom window, warm and golden. For a brief, disoriented moment you forgot where you were. Then everything crashed back: the forest, the blood-stained butcher, the lie you’d told.

You sat up quickly. Toji’s oversized linen shirt had ridden up your thighs during the night. Your feet still ached, but the bandages held firm. You heard heavy footsteps downstairs, then Toji’s low, irritated growl as he opened the door.

“Morning!” a cheerful woman’s voice called up. “We brought breakfast for the newlyweds! Fresh bread, stew, and honey cakes. Don’t tell us you’re still in bed on your wedding night!”

Another woman giggled. “We’re dying to meet your bride properly!”

Toji’s heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking imposing in the daylight. He wore a clean black tunic stretched tight across his chest, the same blood-stained apron tied around his waist. His hair was messy, jaw set with clear annoyance.

“They’re here,” he said flatly. “Three of them. Loaded with food.”

Your stomach twisted. “What do we do?”

Toji’s green eyes dragged over you — bare legs, wearing nothing but his shirt. Something dark flickered across his face.

“You sold us as newlyweds,” he reminded you, voice low. “So act like it. Smile. Look happy. Keep the story straight.”

He stepped closer and tugged the hem of the shirt down your thighs possessively. “There’s a spare skirt and blouse in the chest. Change. Quickly.”

You moved fast, wincing at the pain in your feet. Toji turned his back while you dressed in the simple dark green skirt and cream blouse. They were a little loose but far more practical.

When you were ready, Toji gave you one last look and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Downstairs. Remember — you’re my wife.”

The three women had already let themselves into the front of the shop. They had laid out a generous spread on the wooden counter: warm bread, a pot of hearty stew, honey cakes, and spiced cider. The moment you appeared behind Toji, their faces lit up.

“Oh, here she is!” the tallest, round-faced woman exclaimed. “Look at you, dear. Much better than last night. I’m Mrs. Sato, by the way! My husband runs the bakery just down the street.” She gestured to the other two. “This is Mira and little Hana.”

The younger women smiled warmly.

“You clean up beautifully,” Mira said. “You already have that newlywed glow!”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. Toji’s large hand settled heavily on your lower back, warm and claiming.

“Thank you,” you said, offering a shy smile. “You’re all so kind. I’m sorry for how I looked last night… the journey through the forest was harder than I expected.”

Mrs. Sato waved her hand. “No apologies needed! Running away from a bad match to be with the man you love? It’s the most romantic thing to happen in this village in years.”

Toji grunted, his thumb slowly stroking your spine. “Wasn’t exactly planned,” he said dryly. “But here we are.”

The women laughed and chattered while you helped serve the food. They asked how you met, how long you’d been secretly courting, and whether you planned to stay in the village. You answered carefully, sticking close to the story. Toji added short, gruff confirmations, never moving far from your side.

Just as the women were gathering their empty baskets to leave, a loud, sharp knock echoed through the shop.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This knock was different — heavy, authoritative, and impatient.

Toji’s hand tensed on your back. His expression hardened instantly.

Mrs. Sato glanced toward the door, curious. “Are you expecting more visitors already?”

Toji didn’t answer. He moved toward the door, positioning himself so his broad frame blocked most of the view inside. You stayed behind the counter, heart suddenly hammering.

He opened the door.

Two armed men stood outside, wearing the dark crimson and gold colors of Lord Kato’s household. Swords hung at their hips. Their eyes scanned the interior of the shop coldly.

“We’re searching for a missing girl,” the taller guard announced. “Runaway bride. White wedding dress. She fled the lord’s estate last night. Anyone matching that description come through here?”

The air in the shop grew thick. Mrs. Sato and the other two women turned to look at you with wide eyes, then back at the guards.

Toji’s voice was calm but ice-cold. “No one like that here.”

The second guard tried to peer past him. “Mind if we take a look inside?”

You stayed frozen behind the counter, heart hammering. Before Toji could answer, Mrs. Sato stepped forward with the confidence of someone who had gossiped through every scandal the village had ever seen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said brightly, waving a hand. “You boys are wasting your time. That right there is Toji Fushiguro — our butcher for the last fifteen years. We’ve known him since he was a surly teenager dragging whole pigs through these doors!”

Mira immediately jumped in, nodding eagerly. “And he has a wife! They’ve been happily married for two whole years now. We were at their quiet little wedding ourselves. Very romantic.”

Hana clapped her hands together dramatically. “Yes! They’re the sweetest couple. Toji can barely keep his hands off her even when he’s covered in blood. Always canoodling right outside the shop like they’re still courting!”

Mrs. Sato leaned toward the guards like she was sharing precious village lore. “Honestly, if some runaway noble girl in a fancy white dress had shown up here last night, the entire village would’ve known before sunrise. This dear girl has been living above the shop for ages. Helps Toji with the accounts and everything. She’s no fugitive — she’s the butcher’s wife, plain and simple.”

Toji finally moved. He reached back with one thick arm, caught you around the waist, and pulled you forward against his side in one smooth motion. His grip was firm and possessive, his large hand resting heavily on your hip as he held you close.

The guards blinked, clearly thrown by the united front.

The taller one squinted at you. “But the missing girl was wearing a white wedding dress…”

Mira let out a theatrical laugh. “Plenty of white dresses in the world! Our girl here has been wearing plain village clothes for years. Look at her — does she look like some pampered noble who ran away last night?”

Hana nodded vigorously. “Exactly! She even makes the best meat pies in the village. We’d know if she was some lord’s bride.”

The two guards exchanged uncertain glances. Between Toji’s intimidating size, the three women’s absolute certainty, and the perfectly domestic scene in front of them, their suspicion melted away.

The shorter guard cleared his throat. “Seems like a false lead, then. Sorry to bother you folks.”

The taller one gave a reluctant nod. “Apologies for the intrusion. If you hear anything about a girl in a white dress, send word to the lord’s estate.”

Mrs. Sato smiled sweetly. “Of course, dears. Safe travels back!”

The guards turned and walked off down the street without another word.

The moment the door clicked shut, Mrs. Sato burst into laughter and fanned herself. “Well! That was more excitement than we usually get before noon.”

Mira winked at you. “Don’t worry, love. We’ve got your back. No one’s taking the butcher’s wife anywhere.”

Hana grinned. “We’ll spread the word. The whole village will keep an eye out.”

Toji gave them a short, gruff nod. “Appreciate it.”

The women gathered their empty baskets, still buzzing, and finally left with more promises of future visits and gifts.

The shop fell quiet again, morning sunlight streaming peacefully through the windows.

Toji slowly turned to face you. His hand was still on your waist, heavy and warm. For a long moment he just studied you, green eyes dark and intense.

“You’re damn lucky those three are the nosiest women alive,” he muttered. “They just sold that story better than we could’ve.”

He stepped closer, backing you gently against the counter. His voice dropped low, rough around the edges.

“So the whole village’s got our back it seems.” His thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone. “This lie keeps growing. Whole village thinks you’re mine now.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.

“So tell me, runaway… how long do you plan on playing my wife? And how far are you willing to go to make everyone believe it?”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. The counter pressed into your lower back, and Toji’s broad body blocked out most of the morning light. His hand remained heavy on your hip, thumb still tracing slow, absent circles that made your skin prickle beneath the thin blouse.

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think past getting away from Lord Kato. I just wanted to survive the night.”

Toji hummed, low and thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face like he was trying to decide whether you were worth the growing headache you’d brought him.

“Surviving isn’t enough anymore,” he said. “Not after this morning. Those guards will report back. When they don’t find you, Kato will send more men. Maybe even come himself.” His fingers flexed on your hip. “And the whole village now believes you’re mine. If the story breaks, they’ll look like fools. They won’t forgive that easily.”

You met his eyes, heart thudding. “Then what do we do?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Instead he reached up with his free hand and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle for someone so rough-looking. His calloused fingertips lingered against the side of your neck.

“We lean into it,” he finally said. “Hard. You stay. You act like my wife in public — every smile, every touch, every time someone knocks on that door. No slipping up. No running off when it gets hard.”

He leaned in a fraction closer, voice dropping. “And in private… we figure out the real terms.”

Your breath caught. “Real terms?”

Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, dangerous half-smirk. “You cost me peace and quiet, runaway. You cost me the simple life where nobody bothered me. So you’re going to start paying me back.”

He didn’t elaborate, but the heat in his green eyes made it very clear what kind of payment he had in mind.

“I won’t force you,” he continued, surprising you. “Door’s right there. You can still walk out and take your chances on the road. But if you stay…” His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. “Then you’re mine until this blows over. Or longer. Depends how good you are at pretending.”

The solid wall of his chest pressed against you, warm and unyielding. You could smell faint traces of smoke, soap, and the metallic hint of blood that never quite left him. Your hands came up instinctively, resting lightly on his abdomen.

“I’m not pretending right now,” you whispered.

Toji’s eyes darkened. For a second you thought he might kiss you — really kiss you — but he held back, letting the tension stretch until it was almost unbearable.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because the village expects a devoted wife. They’ll be watching. Bringing food. Asking questions. Asking when we’re going to have little butchers running around.”

Your face burned. Toji chuckled, deep and rough, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“Don’t worry. We’ll give them a good show.” He finally stepped back, giving you room to breathe again, though his hand lingered on your waist a moment longer. “For now, help me open the shop. Act natural. If anyone else comes asking, you know what to say.”

You nodded, still flushed.

As he turned to start his morning routine — sharpening knives, hanging fresh cuts, preparing the counter — you moved to help where you could. Every time you passed near him, his hand would brush your lower back or arm — small, deliberate touches that looked casual to anyone watching but felt heavy with intent.

By midday, a few villagers had already stopped by “just to say hello” and congratulate the newlyweds. Each time, Toji played his part perfectly — gruff, possessive, pulling you close with an ease that made the performance feel dangerously real.

An older man dropped off a small basket of eggs and clapped Toji on the back. “Didn’t think I’d live to see you settle down, Fushiguro. She must be something special.”

Toji’s arm tightened around your waist as he gave a low grunt. “She is.” His fingers flexed against your side, warm through the fabric of your blouse. You leaned into him instinctively, playing along, and felt the solid wall of muscle beneath his tunic.

A young mother came next with her toddler in tow, offering a jar of preserved berries. She smiled at you brightly. “You two look so good together. How long have you been hiding her from us, Toji?”

“Long enough,” he answered, voice rough but carrying a hint of smugness. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the top of your head right in front of her. The casual affection made your stomach flutter.

By early afternoon the steady trickle of visitors finally slowed. Toji flipped the shop sign to “Closed for the Day” and locked the front door with a heavy click. The sudden silence felt louder than all the chatter combined.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around yourself. “They really believe it. All of them.”

Toji wiped his hands on a rag, watching you from across the room. He tossed the rag aside and stalked toward you, slow and deliberate.

Gods, he was huge.

Up close like this, in the quiet afternoon light, the sheer size of him hit you all over again. Broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the fabric of his black tunic, thick arms corded with muscle from years of hauling heavy carcasses, a powerful chest that rose and fell steadily. The jagged scar at the corner of his mouth only made him more striking — dangerous, rough, and strangely, undeniably attractive. Those sharp green eyes pinned you in place, intimidating as ever, yet there was something magnetic about the way he moved. Like a predator who knew exactly how much power he held and chose not to use it… yet.

He stopped right in front of you, so close you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. One large hand came up to cup your chin, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“You’re handling this better than I expected,” he said quietly.

You felt your pulse quicken under his touch. “I feel like I’m going to faint every time someone looks at me.”

His thumb stroked slowly over your skin. “You’re not fainting. You’re standing here in my shop, wearing my clothes, letting me touch you like you belong to me.” His voice dropped lower. “Looks pretty convincing from where I’m standing.”

The air between you thickened. You could smell the faint mix of blood, woodsmoke, and clean sweat that clung to him. His sheer physical presence was overwhelming — the heat rolling off his massive frame, the way his broad chest nearly brushed against you with every breath.

“What happens when the guards come back?” you asked, voice softer than you intended.

Toji’s expression darkened. “Then we give them the same show. Or I handle it my way.” His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. “But right now? Shop’s closed. No more visitors. No more pretending for a little while.”

He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

Instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, exhaustion and adrenaline twisting into something warmer, heavier. Your hands rose to rest on his chest, feeling the hard, solid muscle beneath your palms.

“Toji…” you started, unsure what you even wanted to say.

He cut you off with a low sound. “Careful. You keep saying my name like that and I might start believing this marriage is real myself.”

His grip on the back of your neck tightened just slightly — not painful, but enough to remind you how easily he could pull you in. His green eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering this time, dark with hunger.

“You still haven’t answered my question from earlier,” he murmured. “How far are you willing to go, runaway?”

The shop was quiet except for the distant sounds of village life outside. No one was watching now. It was just the two of you, the weight of the lie, and the growing, electric heat between you.

You wet your lips, heart racing.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. “That should tell you something.”

Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, hungry smirk.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “It does.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. The shop was quiet now, the afternoon light cutting sharp lines across the wooden floor and the rows of knives hanging on the wall. Toji didn’t step back. He stayed right there, towering over you, one hand still gripping the back of your neck while the other rested heavy on your hip.

He really was massive up close.

Broad shoulders that strained his tunic, thick arms veined and scarred from years of brutal work, a chest so solid it looked like it could take a hit from a horse and keep going. The scar at the corner of his mouth gave his face a permanent edge, dangerous and rough. Yet there was something about the way he looked at you — intense green eyes, half-lidded, focused — that made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Toji noticed you staring.

“Eyes up here,” he muttered, but the corner of his scarred mouth twitched like he was amused. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna get the wrong idea.”

You swallowed. “I’ve never been this close to someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” he repeated, almost mocking. He leaned in a little more, voice dropping low. “Big, ugly butcher covered in blood half the time?”

You shook your head. “Not ugly.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Toji paused, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to decide if you were lying. Then he let out a short, rough breath.

His thumb brushed slowly along the side of your neck, calloused and warm. You could feel the strength in his hand, how easily he could tighten his grip if he wanted. The contrast between that raw power and the way he was holding back made the air feel thick.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said quietly. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before flicking back up. “I’m not a patient man, runaway. And I’m definitely not a gentle one.”

Your hands were still pressed against his chest. Under your palms, his muscles were firm and warm, shifting slightly with each breath. You didn’t pull away.

“I know,” you whispered.

Toji’s jaw flexed. For a moment his control looked strained — shoulders tense, fingers pressing harder into your skin. He leaned down until his face was inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath.

“If you stay,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “this stops being fake whenever I say it does. Behind this door, you won’t be playing a role. You’ll be in my bed. Under me. Taking what I give you.” His thumb dragged across your lower lip. “And you’ll moan my name like you mean it.”

Your breath caught.

Toji held your gaze for another long second, then slowly released you. He stepped back, rolling one shoulder like he needed to shake off the tension. The sudden space felt colder than it should have.

“But not right now,” he added gruffly. “You’re still half-dead on your feet and I’ve got work to finish before the meat spoils.”

He turned toward the back counter and picked up his sharpening stone. The steady scrape of metal filled the shop as he worked on one of his larger knives. You stayed by the front counter, watching the way his back and arms moved — powerful, efficient, every motion reminding you exactly what kind of man had just offered to claim you.

Every so often he glanced over at you, eyes dark and unreadable.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Heavy with everything neither of you was saying out loud.

After a while, Toji spoke without looking up from his work.

“You hungry?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden normal question. “A little.”

He jerked his head toward the stairs. “There’s leftover stew from this morning in the pot upstairs. Heat it up if you want. Or stay down here. Doesn’t matter to me.”

You hesitated, then moved to help him organize the counter instead. Every time you passed close by, his arm would brush yours — deliberate, not accidental. Small reminders that the tension hadn’t gone anywhere.

The afternoon stretched on like that. Quiet work. Occasional glances. The weight of his presence never really leaving you.

By the time the sun had fully set and the village outside grew dark and quiet, the tension between you had only thickened. Lanterns flickered in distant windows, but inside the butcher shop everything felt hushed and intimate.

Toji locked the front door with a heavy click and killed most of the lanterns, leaving only a single low one burning near the stairs. The warm glow followed you both upstairs, casting long shadows across the wooden beams.

He grabbed a spare blanket from the chest and headed for the worn couch against the far wall without a word. The piece of furniture looked comically small beneath his massive frame as he tossed the blanket over it. Then he reached back and pulled his tunic off in one smooth motion.

Your mouth went dry.

Firelight danced over his bare back and shoulders — thick slabs of muscle shifting under scarred skin, powerful arms flexing as he folded the tunic. His waist tapered into a sharp V, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Every inch of him looked hard, battle-worn, and undeniably masculine. The sight made something low in your belly tighten.

You stood frozen in the bedroom doorway.

“Wait,” you said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Toji glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow raised. The movement made the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex visibly.

You twisted your fingers in the hem of your blouse, cheeks already burning.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” you offered shyly. “The bed is… big enough for both of us. I don’t mind sharing.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Toji slowly turned around to face you fully. The low firelight carved deep shadows across his torso, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every old scar, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. He looked even bigger like this — raw power barely contained, green eyes locked on you with dangerous intensity.

He took one slow step closer, then another.

“Careful what you offer me, runaway,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m not the type to hold back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back away.

“I just… it doesn’t feel right making you sleep on that tiny thing after everything,” you murmured, eyes flicking involuntarily down his bare chest before snapping back up. “We’re supposed to be married. At least to everyone else.”

Toji stopped just inches away from you. The heat radiating from his body wrapped around you like a cloak. You could smell him — smoke, clean sweat, and that faint metallic trace that always clung to his skin. His sheer size made you feel small and fragile in comparison.

He tilted his head, studying you like prey.

“You offering to share my bed isn’t about being polite,” he murmured. “If I get in that bed with you, I’m not staying on my side. I’ll pull you against me. I’ll have my hands all over that soft little body. And if you keep looking at me with those wide, needy eyes…”

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

“I won’t be able to stop myself from spreading those pretty thighs and finding out exactly how wet pretending to be my wife has made you.”

Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face and pooled between your legs. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, but Toji noticed — of course he did. A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face again, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.

“I’m not gentle,” he continued, voice dropping even lower. “I fuck hard. I take what I want. And right now, I want to ruin that shy little runaway who dropped to her knees at my door and turned my whole life upside down.”

His hand came up, knuckles lightly dragging down the side of your neck, over your racing pulse, then lower until they brushed the neckline of your blouse. Not quite touching skin, but close enough to make you shiver.

“So think very carefully before you offer again,” he warned. “Because once I’m in that bed, the only pretending left will be how long you can keep quiet while I’m buried inside you.”

The air felt too thick to breathe.

Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, predatory smirk as he watched the effect his words had on you.

“Still want to share a bed with me… wife?”

Toji’s words hung heavy in the air.

You didn’t answer with words.

You looked up at him, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, and gave a small, shy nod.

That was all it took.

Toji’s control snapped. A low, almost feral sound rumbled in his chest as he moved. In one fluid motion he scooped you up, one thick arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your breath caught at how easily he carried you — his biceps flexing hard against your body, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your side.

He carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down on your back with surprising care, but the look in his eyes was anything but gentle. The mattress dipped deeply under his weight as he climbed over you, caging you in completely with his massive frame. His broad shoulders blocked out most of the firelight, leaving you in shadow beneath him.

“You a virgin?” he asked, voice low and rough, green eyes searching yours like he was looking for any hesitation.

You nodded again, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word almost reverent. His gaze darkened as it dragged slowly down your body. “Gonna have to take my time with you then. Can’t wreck this tight little virgin cunt on the first thrust.”

He kissed you deeply, tongue claiming your mouth in slow, filthy strokes while his rough hands explored every inch of you. He took his time peeling your clothes off — first tugging your blouse over your head, then sliding your skirt down your legs, and finally hooking his fingers into your soaked panties and dragging them off. When you were completely naked beneath him, he sat back on his heels and just stared, drinking in every inch of your exposed body like a man who’d been starving for weeks.

“So fucking small,” he muttered, almost to himself. His large hands ran up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin on the inside, then spread your legs wide open. “Look at this pretty virgin pussy… already glistening and I’ve barely touched you.”

The cool air hit your wet folds and you shivered. Toji’s eyes were locked between your legs, dark and hungry, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He lowered himself between your spread thighs like a man on a mission. The first slow, hot drag of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit made your entire body jolt. Toji groaned deeply at your taste, the sound vibrating straight through you.

“Sweet as hell,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Could eat this pussy for hours.”

Then he devoured you.

His tongue worked in slow, broad strokes, licking every inch of your soaked folds before focusing on your swollen clit. He sucked the sensitive bud into his hot mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue while two thick fingers teased your entrance, circling and pressing but not pushing in yet. When you started whimpering and rolling your hips, he finally pushed one thick finger inside you — careful, but relentless.

“So goddamn tight,” he growled against your pussy, the vibration making your toes curl. “This little hole is gonna fight my cock the whole way in.”

He curled his finger slowly, searching, until he found that spongy spot that made your back arch. He rubbed it firmly while sucking harder on your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the quiet bedroom — slick, filthy, and loud. Your thighs started trembling around his head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Toji— oh gods—”

He didn’t let up. He ate you out like he was starving for it — messy, hungry, and completely focused on pulling every sound out of you. He added a second finger, stretching you open carefully, scissoring them while his tongue flicked fast and firm over your clit. The pressure built unbearably fast.

Your orgasm crashed over you without warning. Your back arched clean off the bed as you came hard on his face with a broken, sobbing cry of his name. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, pulsing wildly.

Toji licked you through every wave, slow and thorough, drawing out every last tremor until you were twitching and oversensitive, whimpering softly. Only then did he pull back. His chin and lips were shiny with your slick. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and satisfied as he looked up at your flushed, panting face.

Then he shoved his trousers down.

His cock sprang free — thick, heavy, veined, and longer than anything you’d ever imagined. The flushed head was already leaking steadily.

“See this?” he said, stroking himself slowly. “This is gonna stretch you wide open, baby. But I’ll make it fit.”

He climbed back over you, pushing your legs up and folding your knees toward your chest. The position left you completely exposed. He rubbed the fat head of his cock up and down your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass.

“Deep breaths,” he warned. “Gonna go slow.”

He pushed in.

The stretch was intense. You gasped sharply, a high-pitched whimper escaping you as just the thick head popped inside. “Ah—! Toji… it’s so big…”

Toji groaned, jaw clenched tight as he fought the urge to slam forward. “Fuck— so tight,” he hissed. “Relax for me, baby. Let me in.”

You whimpered softly, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “It burns… but— ah— don’t stop…”

He worked himself in inch by slow, careful inch. Every time you tensed, he stopped, leaning down to kiss your neck or suck on your tits until you loosened again. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the restraint.

Halfway in, you let out a shaky moan, eyes fluttering. “Oh gods… I can feel you so deep already…”

Toji looked down at the bulge already forming in your lower belly. “Shit… look at that,” he groaned, pressing a big hand over the swell. “My cock’s barely halfway and I can already see it inside you.”

When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against your ass, you felt so full you could barely breathe. A broken whimper left your lips. “T-Toji… you’re all the way in… I feel so full…”

Toji stayed still, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while he kissed you slow and deep. “Good girl,” he praised, voice strained. “Taking every inch of my cock on your first time. Such a perfect little wife.”

When your whimpers turned into soft, needy moans, he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. The wet drag of his thick cock against your walls made you cry out.

“Feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? Gonna breed this cunt so full tonight.”

“Ah—! Yes… I feel it,” you moaned, voice trembling. “It’s so deep… Toji—!”

His pace gradually picked up. The bed started creaking rhythmically as he fucked you harder, deeper. Your tits bounced with every thrust. You couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your mouth.

“Gonna fill you up,” he panted. “Pump this tight womb full of my cum until it takes. Want you walking around the village with my kid growing inside you. Everyone’s gonna know exactly who fucked you first.”

The filthy words sent you spiraling. “Please— Toji— I’m gonna—!” You came hard around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing him like a vice as you screamed his name, “Toji—! Ahh—!”

Toji snarled and fucked you through it, pace turning brutal. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed loudly.

“Fuck— gonna cum,” he groaned. “Gonna breed you— take it all—”

You whimpered and moaned beneath him, voice hoarse, “Cum inside me… please— fill me up—!”

He slammed in deep one final time and came with a long, guttural moan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, pulse after heavy pulse. There was so much it leaked out around his cock despite how tightly you were stretched around him. Toji kept grinding deep, pushing every drop into your womb, hand pressing down on the bulge in your belly like he wanted to keep it all inside you.

You let out a soft, overwhelmed whimper at the feeling of being so full of him.

He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, both of you slick with sweat.

Then he leaned down, kissed you slow and possessive, and murmured against your lips:

“This cunt belongs to me.”

Toji stayed inside you for a while longer, gently grinding and kissing your neck, before he finally pulled out with a low groan. A thick trickle of his cum leaked from your abused hole onto the sheets. He looked down at the mess with dark satisfaction, then rolled onto his back and pulled you against his chest.

“Rest now,” he said quietly, voice rough but surprisingly gentle as he wrapped a heavy arm around you. “You’ve had a long day, runaway. Close your eyes.”

He pressed one last kiss to the top of your head, his large hand resting possessively on your lower belly.

“Go to sleep.”

-

You woke up to warmth.

A heavy, solid arm was draped across your waist, pinning you to a broad chest. Toji’s body was curled around yours from behind, one thick thigh wedged between your legs. His breathing was slow and deep, but the moment you shifted even slightly, his grip tightened possessively.

The room was still dim, early morning light just beginning to creep through the small window. Your body ached — a deep, satisfying soreness between your thighs, faint bruises on your hips from his fingers, and the unmistakable sticky warmth of his cum still leaking out of you.

You tried to move again, but Toji’s low, sleepy growl stopped you.

“Stay,” he muttered against the back of your neck, voice rough with sleep. His hand slid down to cup your lower belly, pressing lightly. “Not done holding you yet.”

Heat rushed to your face. You stayed still, letting him pull you tighter against him. His cock — already half-hard again — rested heavy against your ass.

After a few quiet minutes, Toji sighed and finally loosened his grip. He rolled you onto your back so he could look down at you. His hair was messy, eyes still heavy-lidded, but the smirk on his scarred mouth was fully awake.

“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly. His hand stayed on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles. “How’re you feeling?”

You shifted, wincing a little at the soreness. “Full… and sore,” you admitted softly.

Toji’s smirk widened into something darker, more satisfied. He leaned down and kissed you — slow and lazy at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours. When he pulled back, he dragged his hand lower, fingers brushing through the mess between your thighs.

“Still leaking my cum,” he murmured, almost proud. “Good.”

He pushed two thick fingers back inside you, slow and careful, fucking his dried cum deeper. You whimpered, hips twitching.

“Toji—”

“Shh,” he soothed, kissing your temple. “Not fucking you again right now. You’re too sore.” He kept his fingers inside you anyway, lazy and possessive. “Just keeping you full.”

You stayed like that for a while — his fingers buried inside you, his mouth brushing lazy kisses along your neck and shoulder. The morning was quiet except for the occasional creak of the bed and your soft sounds.

Eventually he pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean while watching your face.

“Breakfast,” he said simply. “Then we open the shop.”

He got up first, completely naked and shameless. You couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the powerful lines of his back, the flex of his ass and thighs as he moved. He caught you looking and chuckled.

“Keep staring like that and I will bend you over the table downstairs,” he warned.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning.

He tossed you one of his clean shirts and a fresh skirt. While you dressed, he pulled on his usual trousers and tank top, tying his blood-stained apron around his waist.

Before you left the bedroom, he caught your wrist and pulled you close one more time. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Last night wasn’t pretend,” he said quietly, eyes serious. “Not for me. You’re mine. Understand?”

You swallowed and whispered, “I understand.”

He kissed you again — hard, claiming — then rested his forehead against yours for a second.

“Good.”

He led you downstairs, his hand firm on your lower back the entire way.

The village was waking up outside. And for the first time since you’d run away, you didn’t feel like running anymore.

Toji unlocked the front door and flipped the sign while you tied on a clean apron. The morning air carried the smell of fresh bread from Mrs. Sato’s bakery and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. A few early customers began drifting toward the shop.

The first hour passed in a surprisingly calm rhythm. You helped weigh portions, wrap cuts of meat in clean paper, and hand them over with a shy smile. Toji stayed close the whole time — sometimes reaching past you for a knife, sometimes resting a hand on your waist as he moved behind you. Every touch felt deliberate, like he was marking his territory even when no one was watching.

Then the bell above the door rang again.

A tall, sun-tanned man with kind eyes and an easy, friendly smile stepped inside. He looked to be in his late twenties, with the strong build of someone who spent his days working the fields. He greeted Toji with a familiar nod.

“Morning, Fushiguro. The usual shoulder cut, please.” His gaze shifted to you behind the counter and softened with genuine interest. “You must be the new wife everyone’s been talking about. I’m Haru. I run the big farm past the mill.”

You returned his smile politely. “Nice to meet you, Haru.”

He watched as you carefully wrapped his order, your hands still a little clumsy with the butcher paper. “It’s good to see a new face around here,” he said warmly. “You seem really kind. Gentle. The kind of person who makes a place feel brighter just by being in it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shyly. “If you ever need anything — extra vegetables from the farm, help carrying something heavy, or just someone to talk to when things get quiet — my door’s always open. Wouldn’t want you feeling lonely so soon after moving in.”

You tilted your head, completely oblivious to any hidden meaning, and gave him a grateful smile. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before you could say anything else, the air behind you changed.

Toji’s large hand settled heavily on your hip, fingers digging in with clear possession as he pulled you back firmly against his chest. His other arm slid around your waist, locking you in place.

“She won’t be needing anything,” Toji said, his voice low and dangerously even. “I take care of my wife.”

Haru blinked, the friendly smile faltering as he finally registered the tension rolling off the butcher. “Of course. I was just… being neighborly.”

Toji’s grip on your hip tightened. “Neighborly is saying hello. The rest sounded like something else.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Haru swallowed hard, quickly paid for his meat, and muttered a polite goodbye before leaving without another word. The door swung shut behind him with a soft jingle.

The second he was gone, Toji spun you around and backed you against the counter. His green eyes were dark, jaw clenched tight with barely-contained jealousy. One big hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip.

“You really didn’t notice?” he muttered, voice rough.

You shook your head, genuinely confused. “He was just being nice…”

Toji let out a short, irritated breath and leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours. “He wasn’t just being nice. He was testing the waters. Seeing if my wife might be open to something else. Offering you a soft place to land if you ever got tired of me.”

His other hand slid under your skirt, fingers brushing between your thighs and finding you still slick from the night before. You gasped softly as he pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them slowly.

“Toji—”

“Mine,” he growled quietly against your ear, pumping his fingers in a lazy rhythm. “This pussy is mine. You are mine. I don’t want you smiling so sweetly at other men. Understand?”

You whimpered, clutching his shoulders as pleasure sparked through your still-sensitive body. “I understand…”

He kissed you then — hard, possessive, and hungry — while his fingers continued their slow, deliberate strokes. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still dark with jealousy.

“Next time someone talks to you like that,” he said, voice low, “you let me handle it.”

He reluctantly withdrew his fingers, straightened your skirt, and stepped back like nothing had happened. But the tension in his shoulders and the dark look in his eyes remained.

“Back to work,” he said gruffly, still clearly worked up.

You nodded, legs shaky, heart racing, and turned back to the counter.

The rest of the morning passed with Toji staying even closer than before — a constant, heavy, possessive presence at your side. Every time another customer entered, his hand found your waist or lower back, silently reminding everyone (and you) exactly who you belonged to.

The rest of the morning dragged on with the same heavy tension.

Every time a male customer stepped through the door, Toji’s demeanor shifted. His hand would find your waist, your hip, or the small of your back — a silent, unmistakable claim. He answered questions in short, clipped tones and watched the men with sharp, warning eyes. You tried to focus on wrapping orders and smiling politely, but the constant possessiveness was becoming impossible to ignore.

By early afternoon, when the shop finally quieted again, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You turned to him while he was wiping down the counter.

“Toji,” you said softly, “you’re being too much.”

He paused, setting the rag down slowly. When he looked at you, his green eyes had gone dark.

“Too much?” he repeated, voice low and deceptively calm.

You swallowed but stood your ground. “Yes. The constant touching, the glaring at every man who even looks at me... They’re just customers.”

Toji stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he slowly walked around the counter, backing you up until your hips hit the edge. He caged you in with his massive frame, one hand braced beside you on the wood, the other coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You think I’m being too possessive?” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Tell me something, wife… What kind of husband would I be if I let other men think they can have access to what’s mine?”

His voice was rough, low, and dangerous. “If I smiled and stepped aside while they flirted with you? While they offered you help and soft words like they had any right to you?”

He leaned in closer, breath hot against your ear. “I’d be a fucking joke. A weak man who doesn’t know how to protect what belongs to him. And I’m not weak.”

His free hand slid under your skirt without warning, fingers pushing between your thighs. You were bare underneath. The moment his calloused fingertips brushed your folds, he groaned softly — low and rough — when he found you already wet again.

“Already soaked,” he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Complaining about me being too possessive, but your pussy is dripping the second I touch you.”

“Toji—” you whimpered, hips twitching as two thick fingers pushed inside you in one smooth motion. The stretch made you gasp, your walls still tender and sensitive from the night before.

He curled his fingers slowly, deliberately, stroking that spongy spot deep inside you while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, firm circles. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark, teeth grazing your skin as he worked you open.

You moaned, loud and broken, clutching desperately at his broad shoulders. Your legs trembled around his wrist as pleasure sparked hot and fast through your body.

“You can tell me I’m too much,” he growled against your throat, biting down lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue. “But we both know the truth. You like it when I act like this. You like knowing no one else can touch you. You like being mine.”

His fingers pumped faster, curling with every thrust, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filling the quiet shop. Your hips rolled against his hand instinctively, chasing the pleasure even as your thighs shook.

“Ah— Toji… please—” you moaned, voice cracking. Your head fell back, exposing more of your neck to him. He took full advantage, sucking and biting along your skin while his fingers drove deeper, faster.

You were right there — teetering on the edge, muscles tightening around his thick fingers — when he suddenly pulled his hand away completely.

You let out a desperate, needy whine, hips chasing his fingers uselessly. Your core throbbed, aching and empty.

“Toji…!” you whimpered, voice hoarse and frustrated, eyes glassy with unshed tears of need. “Please— I was so close…”

Toji smirked, dark and satisfied, eyes gleaming with lust as he watched you squirm. He brought his glistening fingers up between you, holding them in front of your face so you could see how wet they were — coated in your slick right up to his knuckles.

“Open,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips. He pushed his fingers into your mouth, letting you taste yourself as you sucked them clean, tongue swirling around them obediently. His green eyes darkened further, pupils blown wide as he watched you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Look at you… so fucking eager. Whining because I stopped, sucking my fingers like you’d do anything for my cock right now.”

He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop and leaned in, kissing you deeply, tasting you on your own tongue. When he pulled back, his breath was ragged.

“You can complain about me being possessive all you want,” he said, voice dark and low, “but your body doesn’t lie. This pussy knows exactly who it belongs to.”

He suddenly lifted you onto the counter with ease, as if you weighed nothing. The wood was cool against the backs of your thighs as he shoved your skirt all the way up to your waist in one rough motion, baring your dripping pussy completely. He stepped between your spread thighs, his broad body forcing your legs wider apart until your knees were nearly touching your shoulders.

His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging deep into your soft flesh with unmistakable ownership. With his other hand, he freed his cock — thick, heavy, and already throbbing. The veined shaft glistened as he stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your exposed, glistening cunt.

“Since you think I’m too possessive,” he said, voice rough and dangerous, “I’m going to remind you exactly why I am.”

He rubbed the fat, leaking head of his cock up and down your soaked folds, coating every thick inch in your slick. He teased your swollen clit with every slow pass, tapping it lightly until your hips jerked and you let out a needy whimper.

“Toji… please—”

Without another word, he pushed in with one deep, powerful thrust.

You cried out sharply, back arching hard off the counter as the thick head forced its way inside, stretching you wide open. The sudden, overwhelming fullness stole your breath. Toji groaned deeply, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke, his hips flush against your ass.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he growled, voice strained with pleasure. “Even after I filled you last night. This greedy little cunt keeps sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”

He didn’t give you any time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the heavy wooden counter creaking loudly under the force of every brutal thrust. Your moans echoed shamelessly through the empty shop as he claimed you right there in the middle of the day.

“Mine,” he snarled against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave another dark mark. “Say it.”

“I’m yours— ah— Toji—!” you moaned, voice breaking as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, heels digging into his lower back.

He fucked you even harder, hips snapping forward with powerful, punishing strokes. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, loud and filthy. One of his big hands reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing fast, tight circles.

“That’s right,” he panted, breath hot against your ear. “My wife. My pussy. No one else gets to look at you the way I do. No one else gets to touch you. No one else even gets to fucking think about you.”

Your moans grew louder and more desperate, your walls fluttering around his thick cock with every deep thrust. The counter shook beneath you. Your tits bounced wildly inside your blouse with the force of his movements.

He suddenly leaned back slightly, gripping your thighs and spreading you even wider as he drove into you. The new angle made him hit even deeper, the bulge in your lower belly becoming visible with every thrust.

“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on the spot where his cock disappeared inside you. “You’re taking me so fucking deep. This tight cunt was made for my cock.”

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you. “Toji—! It’s too deep— ahh—!”

“You can take it,” he growled, fucking you harder. “You’re going to take everything I give you.”

Your orgasm crashed over you without warning — fast, violent, and overwhelming. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, fluttering and squeezing as waves of intense pleasure tore through your body. You screamed his name, thighs shaking violently around his waist.

Toji snarled like a beast, his rhythm turning erratic and savage as he fucked you through your climax. He kept pounding into you, chasing his own release, hips slamming against yours with wet, filthy sounds.

But he didn’t cum.

Instead, he suddenly slowed his thrusts, grinding deep and slow, keeping you right on the edge of overstimulation. His breathing was ragged, sweat glistening on his chest and neck.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, possessive kiss while still buried deep inside you.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmured against your lips, voice dark and full of promise. “We’re nowhere near finished.”

Before you could catch your breath, Toji pulled out of you with a wet, obscene sound. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing, already missing the thick stretch of him. But he didn’t give you any time to protest.

In one swift, powerful motion, he flipped you over onto your stomach across the counter. Your chest pressed against the cool, smooth surface, your cheek resting on the wood as he yanked your hips back and up, forcing your ass high in the air. Your skirt was still bunched uselessly around your waist, leaving you completely exposed — bent over like a whore in the middle of his shop.

Toji kicked your legs wider apart with his foot, then pressed one large hand firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you down hard against the counter.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice thick with raw lust. “Bent over my counter like a proper little wife. Ass up, pussy dripping for me.”

He spread your ass cheeks wide with both hands, exposing your swollen, abused pussy completely. Without any warning, he spat directly onto your folds — a thick, warm glob of saliva landing right on your clit and dripping down. You gasped sharply at the filthy sensation, your hips twitching.

Toji groaned at the sight and used two thick fingers to rub his spit into your pussy, mixing it with your own slick, pushing it inside you. Then he brought his palm down hard on your ass with a loud, resounding smack.

The sharp sting bloomed hot across your skin. You cried out, jolting forward on the counter.

“Stay still,” he ordered, voice rough. He smacked the other cheek even harder, watching the way your flesh jiggled and turned pink under his hand. “This ass is mine too. Every fucking inch of you is mine.”

You moaned helplessly, pushing back against him despite the sting. Toji lined up the thick head of his cock again and thrust back inside you in one brutal, deep stroke.

The new angle made him feel impossibly bigger, reaching even deeper. You moaned loudly, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth wooden counter as he immediately started fucking you hard and fast.

The counter creaked loudly under the force of his powerful thrusts. Each snap of his hips drove his thick cock impossibly deep, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the empty shop. Toji’s hands gripped your hips in a bruising hold, pulling you back onto his cock with every stroke like he was using you.

“Fuck— this pussy feels even better like this,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. He smacked your ass again, harder this time, watching the way your flesh rippled red under his palm. “So fucking wet. You like being bent over and used like this, don’t you?”

“Yes— ah— Toji—!” you moaned, cheek pressed against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut. Every brutal thrust made your breasts press harder into the wood, your sensitive nipples dragging against it.

Toji reached forward and fisted a hand in your hair, pulling your head back slightly as he fucked you even harder. His hips slammed against your ass with wet, filthy sounds. He spat on your pussy again, right where his thick cock was stretching you open, and used his thumb to rub the saliva into your swollen clit.

“Such a messy little wife,” he panted, smacking your ass repeatedly between thrusts — sharp, stinging slaps that made you clench tighter around him. “Dripping all over my counter. Taking my cock so deep like you were made for it. Look at this greedy cunt swallowing every inch.”

Your moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure. The combination of his brutal pace, the stinging heat on your ass, and the filthy words pushed you right to the edge again.

Toji leaned over you, his broad chest pressing against your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he kept pounding into you without mercy.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he growled, smacking your ass one more time, hard enough to make you yelp.

“You—! It belongs to you— Toji—!” you cried out, voice hoarse and desperate.

He snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the counter shaking beneath you. His hand slipped between your legs again, rubbing your clit fast and rough.

You came with a broken scream, your walls clamping down hard around his thick cock, thighs shaking violently as intense pleasure tore through you.

Toji groaned loudly as your orgasm triggered his own. He slammed in deep one final time and came hard, flooding your pussy with thick, hot spurts of cum. He kept grinding into you slowly, pushing every drop as deep as possible, his hips pressed tight against your reddened ass.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the shop were your heavy breathing and the faint drip of his cum leaking out of you onto the floor.

Toji stayed buried inside you, leaning over your back and kissing the back of your neck possessively.

“Still think I’m being too possessive?” he murmured against your skin, voice dark and satisfied.

You could only whimper in response, too overwhelmed to form words. Your body was trembling, pressed against the counter, pussy still fluttering weakly around his thick cock. Every small shift made you feel the mess he’d left inside you — warm, sticky, and so full it was leaking down your thighs.

Toji let out a low, rumbling sound of approval. He stayed deep for a long moment, grinding slow and lazy, pushing his cum even deeper as if he couldn’t stand the thought of any of it escaping. His large hand smoothed over the reddened skin of your ass where he’d spanked you, almost soothing now, before giving one last firm squeeze.

“Answer me,” he said quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“…No,” you breathed, voice hoarse and shaky. “I don’t.”

He hummed, clearly pleased. He finally pulled out slowly, watching with dark eyes as a thick trail of his cum dripped from your abused hole onto the floor. The sight made him groan softly.

“Fuck, that’s a pretty sight,” he muttered. He used two fingers to push some of the leaking cum back inside you, then straightened your skirt with surprising care.

Toji helped you stand on shaky legs, turning you to face him. He cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing your flushed cheek as he studied your expression — eyes glassy, lips swollen, hair messy.

“You’re going to feel me for the rest of the day,” he said, voice low. “Every step. Every time you move. I want you thinking about who fucked you over this counter.”

He leaned in and kissed you — slower this time, but still deep and possessive. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a brief second.

“Clean yourself up a little,” he told you, pressing one last kiss to your temple. “We’ve still got half a day left.”

Toji stepped back, tucking himself away and adjusting his apron like nothing had happened, though the dark, satisfied glint in his eyes remained.

You stood there on unsteady legs, heart still racing, feeling the unmistakable warmth of his cum slowly leaking down your inner thighs.

And somehow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain.

a/n: aren't the old hags kinda iconic? lmk what you think and if you'd be interested in a part two! likes and reblogs appreciated!!

All rights reserved © 2026 seoyue. No part of my work may be copied, reposted, modified, translated, or claimed as your own on any platform.

[coco-jino]

Evil Lives Next Door…

R.Sukuna!

EvilBoyNextDoor! Sukuna x Reader.

Sukuna is lowk a psycho who needs to be served a restraining order. Tw: home invasion kinda? Violence & mentions of blood. Sukuna is a cocky pos who lives to annoy reader.

Art is by _v7undead on X and I’m not sure who the artist of the other one is :’) but credits to them!!

The first time you met Ryomen Sukuna, he was sitting on a black motorcycle at two in the morning, covered in blood. You had only moved into the neighborhood three days earlier, so naturally your first thought was: Oh my God, my neighbor is a serial killer. He noticed you staring from your porch immediately. Four pinkish-red eyes lifted lazily toward you through the dark, sharp and terrifying even from across the street. You froze with your house keys halfway to the lock while Sukuna stared back at you for a long moment before casually wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You gonna stand there all night?”

You nearly dropped your keys. “I—”

Your eyes darted to the blood again. Sukuna followed your gaze and clicked his tongue.

“It’s not mine.”

“That does not make it better?!”

To your horror, he laughed. Not awkwardly or apologetically, but like your panic genuinely entertained him. The porch light caught the black tattoos winding over his arms and throat while he leaned back against the motorcycle with terrifying ease.

“You’re the new neighbor.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed hard. “Y-yeah.”

“Tch. Thought so.”

Then he just looked at you long enough to make your skin hot. Not in a romantic way. More like a tiger deciding whether or not you were edible. You cleared your throat awkwardly.

“Well. Um. Goodnight?”

Sukuna smirked slightly. “Sure.”

You got inside your house in record time and immediately texted your best friend:

my neighbor is either in a gang or legally wanted by several governments

The problem with Sukuna was that he somehow got worse the more you knew him. At first he was just intimidating, tall, broad-shouldered, covered in tattoos, and constantly looking like he’d either kill someone or ruin their life recreationally. But then you started noticing things. Older ladies on the street adored him for some reason. He carried groceries for Mrs. Tanaka every Thursday without being asked. Neighborhood cats followed him around like he was their cryptid king. He always left food out for the orange stray near the vending machines while insulting it under his breath.

“Ugly thing,” he muttered one afternoon, crouching to scratch under the cat’s chin anyway.

The cat purred instantly.

You stared from across the sidewalk until Sukuna glanced up.

“What.”

“…You like cats?”

“No.”

The cat immediately rolled onto its back for him.

You blinked slowly. “That cat would die for you.”

“Tch. That’s its problem.”

The second major issue was that Sukuna was unfortunately very attractive. Like offensively attractive. The kind of attractive that made you angry, especially because he clearly knew it. One evening you came home carrying far too many grocery bags only to find him leaning against your fence smoking.

“You walk slow.”

You glared immediately. “Some of us buy actual food instead of surviving on cigarettes and violence.”

Sukuna snorted before taking half the grocery bags from your hands effortlessly. Your brain short-circuited.

“…What.”

“You looked pathetic.”

“That’s not nice!”

“You’re welcome.”

He started walking toward your front door anyway, forcing you to hurry after him.

“You know, normal people say things like, ‘Here, let me help you.’”

“I’m not normal.”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

But the real issue, the actual issue, was the way Sukuna looked at you differently than he looked at everyone else. You noticed it slowly over time. The way his eyes followed you when you talked. How he somehow appeared outside whenever you struggled carrying something heavy. How strangely quiet he became whenever you were upset. He still acted like a menace to society, but around you there were tiny cracks in that terrifying exterior.

One rainy evening, the power in your house went out completely. You were standing on a chair trying to reach the stupid fuse box when suddenly a deep voice behind you said:

“You’re gonna fall.”

You screamed so loudly you nearly did fall, but Sukuna caught you one-handed around the waist before you hit the ground. Your heart practically stopped.

“What is WRONG with you?!” you yelled.

“Tch. Your window was open.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re IN MY HOUSE.”

“You were taking too long.”

You stared at him in disbelief while rain hammered against the windows outside. Then you realized something even worse.

His hand was still on your waist.

Sukuna noticed your expression immediately and smirked. Your face got hotter instantly.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

His grin widened slightly. “Doing what?”

You hated him. Actually hated him.

“Get out of my house.”

“No.”

“You can’t just say no?!”

“I fixed your power.”

You blinked just as the lights flickered back on behind him.

“…Oh.”

Sukuna looked unbearably smug. “You’re welcome.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re still insane.”

“And yet,” he said lazily, stepping closer, “you keep looking at me like that.”

Your breath caught. “…Like what?”

Sukuna’s eyes dragged slowly over your face like he already knew the answer.

“Like you’re trying real hard not to kiss me.”

Your brain fully stopped functioning.

Because the worst part?

He was right.

You found out completely by accident, which somehow made the entire situation worse. Much, much worse. It happened three days after the “fuse box incident”, three days of avoiding Ryomen Sukuna as hard as humanly possible. Unfortunately, Sukuna lived directly across the street and seemed to treat personal boundaries like vague suggestions from the government. Every time you left your house, there he was. Leaning against his bike. Sitting on his porch. Standing outside the convenience store at exactly the same time as you “coincidentally.” It was horrifying. And deeply suspicious.

So when your elderly next-door neighbor Mr. Saito casually said, “Good thing that boy fixed the breaker box he tampered with,” you stopped walking entirely.

“…I’m sorry,” you said slowly. “The what he tampered with?”

Mr. Saito blinked. “The breaker outside your house. Saw him messing with it before your lights went out.”

Silence.

The grocery bag in your hand nearly slipped.

“You… saw him do it?”

“Oh yes.” The old man smiled fondly. “Young love is strange these days.”

Young—

LOVE?!

Your soul left your body.

You crossed the street so fast you almost got hit by a bicycle. Sukuna was exactly where you expected him to be: sprawled lazily across a chair on his porch like a tattooed cryptid king, one arm hanging over the side while he smoked. He looked up immediately when he saw your expression.

And smiled.

That somehow made everything worse.

“You,” you said, pointing accusingly, “cut my power?!”

Sukuna blinked once and then had the audacity to look confused.

“…Yeah.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Yeah?!”

“Tch. Why are you yelling?”

“WHY AM I—” You looked around wildly like the universe itself needed to witness this conversation. “YOU BROKE INTO MY ELECTRICAL SYSTEM.”

“I didn’t break it. I fixed it too.”

“That is NOT BETTER.”

Sukuna exhaled smoke slowly, completely unbothered by your psychological collapse.

“You were avoiding me.”

Your eye twitched. “So your solution was domestic terrorism?!”

“It was one fuse.”

“YOU SOUND INSANE.”

At that, Sukuna actually laughed. Like genuinely laughed. Deep, rough, and horribly attractive, which only enraged you further.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, horrified. “You’re actually a psycho.”

“Tch.”

“You cut my power so I’d talk to you!”

“You did talk to me.”

You stared at him in speechless disbelief. The worst part was that he sounded like this was completely reasonable behavior.

“You cannot do things like that!”

“Why not?”

“BECAUSE NORMAL PEOPLE DON’T SABOTAGE HOUSES TO FLIRT.”

Sukuna tilted his head slightly.

“…That’s flirting?”

You froze.

He froze.

Silence.

Then slowly… slowly a grin spread across Sukuna’s face. A dangerous one.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Oh no.”

“You thought I was flirting with you.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You just said it.”

“I TAKE IT BACK.”

Sukuna stood up from the chair in one smooth movement, towering over you immediately. Your survival instincts activated at once and you took three giant steps backward. He noticed and looked amused.

“You’re scared of me now?”

“Now?!” you repeated incredulously. “Sukuna, you committed a felony because I wasn’t texting you back!”

“It worked.”

“That’s NOT THE ISSUE.”

He stepped off the porch toward you and you backed away again immediately.

“Sukuna.”

“What.”

“If you come any closer I’m calling the police.”

“Tch. Dramatic.”

“You are literally proving my point!”

Sukuna stopped in front of you anyway, close enough that your heart immediately started acting stupid, which felt deeply unfair during an active crisis.

“You talk too much when you’re nervous,” he said lazily.

“I’m nervous because my neighbor is apparently one bad day away from becoming a true crime documentary.”

His grin widened slightly.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

Your brain blue-screened instantly.

“…What.”

Sukuna leaned down slightly, eyes sharp with amusement.

“I said—”

“I HEARD YOU.”

Silence.

Your face was burning while Sukuna looked entirely too pleased about it.

Then somehow, impossibly, he got worse.

“Your power’s gonna go out again tonight.”

You gasped in genuine horror.

“SUKUNA.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement.

“You gonna invite me in this time, or should I cut the lights first?”

You pointed at Ryomen Sukuna so aggressively your grocery bag nearly exploded.

“That,” you said, voice shaking, “is the most serial-killer sentence anyone has ever said to me.”

Sukuna looked deeply unbothered by this information.

“Tch. You watch too many crime shows.”

“YOU sabotaged my electricity to force interaction!”

“And?”

“And?!”

He stared at you for a long moment before shrugging lazily.

“You kept avoiding me.”

“That is not legal justification!”

“You’re still talking to me.”

Your eye twitched because, infuriatingly, he had a point. You hated that he had a point, and Sukuna looked unbearably smug about it too.

You took another cautious step backward. “I need you to understand something very clearly.”

“Hm?”

“If my lights flicker even once tonight, I’m calling an exorcist.”

“That only works on curses.”

“Great,” you snapped. “Then I’ll call Batman.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh so sudden it caught you completely off guard. It transformed his entire face for a second was sharper, younger and dangerously attractive which was honestly inconvenient considering the active restraining-order energy of this conversation.

You recovered quickly.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Being weirdly charming right after threatening my infrastructure.”

Sukuna smirked immediately.

“So you admit I’m charming.”

“No.”

“You just did.”

“I literally didn’t.”

“You implied it.”

You groaned loudly and turned to leave before this somehow became even more humiliating.

Then Sukuna spoke again.

“You’re coming over tonight.”

You stopped mid-step and slowly turned back toward him.

“…Excuse me?”

“My place. Eight o’clock.”

Your jaw dropped.

“That was not a request!”

“It worked though.”

“Sukuna, you cannot summon people like an evil billionaire.”

“Tch. Why not?”

“Because society has RULES.”

He crossed his arms, tattoos shifting against muscle in a way that honestly should have been illegal.

“You’ll come.”

The certainty in his voice made your stomach flip in the worst possible way.

“No, I won’t.”

“You’re curious.”

“I’m terrified.”

“Close enough.”

You stared at him for a long moment before narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“…Wait.”

Sukuna already looked amused, which was never a good sign.

“Did you only cut my power because you wanted an excuse to talk to me alone?”

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then Sukuna looked away first.

Your mouth fell open instantly.

“Oh my God.”

“Tch.”

“Oh my GOD, you did.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You committed electrical manipulation because you have a crush on me?!”

At that, Sukuna’s eyes snapped back to yours immediately.

“What did you say?”

Your survival instincts screamed, but unfortunately your mouth moved faster than your brain.

“You heard me.”

The entire atmosphere shifted.

Sukuna stepped toward you once and your heartbeat immediately malfunctioned.

“Say it again.”

His voice dropped lower that time. Rougher.

You absolutely should not have found that attractive.

You absolutely did.

Which honestly felt like a personal failure.

You swallowed hard. “No.”

Sukuna kept walking toward you slowly until you backed directly into your own front gate.

Oh no.

Oh no.

He planted one hand against the gate beside your head, towering over you completely now.

Your soul ascended.

“You think I have a crush on you?” he asked softly.

“You cut my power!”

“You were avoiding me.”

“That is not helping your case!”

His grin widened slightly.

“You noticed though.”

Your face felt dangerously hot.

“Unfortunately.”

For one terrible second, neither of you moved.

Then Sukuna leaned closer… close enough that you could smell smoke, rain, and something distinctly him.

“You gonna come over tonight,” he murmured, “or do I need to start tampering with your water supply too?”

You stared at him in absolute disbelief.

“…You are clinically insane.”

“And yet,” Sukuna said lazily, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “you’re still looking at me like that.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Again.

This man was a public safety hazard.

By the time you knocked on Ryomen Sukuna’s door at exactly eight o’clock, you already knew this was a mistake. A catastrophic one. The kind future-you would eventually look back on and say: Yeah, that was the beginning of my downfall.

The door opened almost immediately. Sukuna leaned against the frame wearing a black t-shirt and loose sweatpants like he wasn’t the most dangerous man in a three-mile radius. His eyes flicked over you once, slowly, before he smirked.

“You actually came.”

You crossed your arms immediately. “I’m here to make sure you never touch my electrical system again.”

“Tch. Sure.”

“That’s literally why I’m here.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You followed him inside anyway.

Big mistake.

His house somehow smelled exactly like him. Smoke, rain, and something warm underneath it all. Minimal furniture. Dark colors. One giant couch that looked unfairly comfortable. And somehow it was worse seeing Sukuna in a normal setting, because he still radiated the exact same dangerous energy while doing completely ordinary things. Like handing you a drink. Or leaning against the kitchen counter watching you talk. Or looking at you for slightly too long.

“You’re staring again,” you accused.

“You talk with your hands.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s distracting.”

Your face got hot instantly while Sukuna looked unbearably satisfied about it.

The conversation somehow devolved into arguing over movies, then music, then whether or not he was “legally concerning as a human being.”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You have villain energy.”

“And you still came over.”

“That was investigative journalism.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh.

Then the room got quiet.

Not awkward quiet.

Worse.

The kind where you suddenly became hyperaware of how close he was sitting. How his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you. How his eyes kept dropping to your face whenever you spoke.

Your heartbeat started acting suspicious immediately.

“You’re nervous again,” Sukuna murmured.

“No, I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You turned toward him to argue and immediately stopped.

He was way closer than expected.

Your brain completely stalled.

Sukuna noticed instantly.

That smug look returned immediately.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

“Sukuna—”

“You keep looking at me like you forgot how to think.”

“That is not happening.”

“Hm.”

Then he leaned in slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to make your pulse spike violently.

“You gonna run away again?” he asked quietly.

Your brain screamed: leave immediately.

Your body completely ignored that advice.

For one terrible second, neither of you moved.

Then Sukuna kissed you.

And your brain fully shut down.

Because oh.

OH.

That was—

That was a problem.

A massive one.

Your hands instinctively grabbed onto his shirt as the kiss deepened briefly, and somewhere in the middle of your rapidly collapsing decision-making skills you ended up half in his lap while Sukuna looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Then suddenly…

Your survival instincts returned.

You jerked back so fast you nearly fell off the couch.

“Oh my God.”

Sukuna already looked irritated. “What.”

“You—”

You pointed at him accusingly while your face burned alive.

“You’re evil.”

A pause.

Then slowly, Sukuna grinned.

“…Because I kissed you?”

“You HYPNOTIZED me somehow.”

He laughed immediately. Actually laughed. Deep, cocky, thoroughly satisfied laughter while you stared at him in horror.

“That is the only explanation.”

“Tch. Sure.”

“You’re like- like medically seductive.”

Sukuna leaned back against the couch looking unbearably smug now.

“You were kissing me back.”

“THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT.”

“It seemed important.”

You made a strangled noise, grabbed your jacket, and practically sprinted toward the door.

Behind you, Sukuna called out lazily:

“You’ll come back.”

You whipped around, scandalized. “NO I WON’T.”

His grin widened.

“Liar.”

[paxyfica]

ruin the friendship w/ bsf!sukuna

play while reading: ruin the friendship

The first time he called you stupid, you were seven years old, sitting on the curb with a scraped knee and tears streaming down your face.

“You’re stupid, you know that?” Sukuna had said, standing over you with his arms crossed. But even then, his hands weren’t as harsh as his words. He had knelt down, slapping a neon Band-Aid over the cut with clumsy fingers. “Stop crying. It’s just blood.”

“Shut up,” you had sniffled, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “You dared me to jump off the swing.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

That was the baseline. The constant. Sukuna was the boy who pushed you into the dirt and then pulled you back up, dusting you off while complaining about it the entire time.

By the time you hit fourteen, things started shifting. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic epiphany. It was a Tuesday. You were sitting on his bedroom floor, doing algebra homework while he played some first-person shooter on his console. You looked up to ask him a question, and the words just died in your throat.

He had grown over the summer. His shoulders were broader, his jawline sharper, and his voice had dropped an octave that made something in your stomach flip. He caught you staring, pausing the game and turning his head.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you muttered, quickly looking back down at your textbook. Your face felt hot.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads. Do I have shit on my face?”

“No, you’re just ugly,” you shot back, a defense mechanism you’d perfected over the years.

Sukuna scoffed, throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper ate your head. “Fuck off. You’re just mad you’re still built like a twig.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. That was the year the crush settled in, quiet and persistent. By fifteen, it was a dull ache. By sixteen, it was a living, breathing thing that sat between you on the couch, rode in the passenger seat of his beat-up Honda, and lingered in the spaces between your fingers when your hands brushed.

What you didn’t know was that somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, Sukuna was having a crisis of his own.

He looked at you one night while you were laughing at a stupid joke he made, the streetlights catching the curve of your smile, and it hit him so hard he couldn’t breathe. He was neck-deep in love with you. But Sukuna’s world was chaotic, angry, and unpredictable. You were the only thing that made sense. You were the only constant. If he crossed that line and they crashed and burned—which, knowing him, they would—he would lose you. And he couldn’t survive that.

So, he built a wall. A transparent one, but a wall nonetheless.

When you were nineteen, you tried to break it down.

It was raining, and you were both sitting in his car outside your apartment building. The engine was off, the windows fogging up from your breath. The tension in the small space was suffocating.

“Are you going to go out with him?” Sukuna asked, his voice tight. He was staring straight ahead at the dashboard, his jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack. He was talking about a guy from your psych class who had asked yo out.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, turning your head to look at his profile. “Do you want me to?”

“I don't know, why the hell are you asking me.”

You shifted in your seat, turning your body toward him. You were so tired of the games. So tired of the almosts. “Give me a reason to say no, Sukuna. Just one.”

He finally looked at you, and the sheer desperation in his eyes made your breath hitch. He looked like he wanted to devour you, to pull you across the console and never let you go. His hand twitched on the steering wheel.

“We could be more, you know,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his wrist.

He flinched, pulling his arm back just an inch, but it felt like a mile. “Don’t.”

“Sukuna—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, his voice rough. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Don’t ruin this. You’re my best friend. You’re the only good thing I’ve got. Don’t fuck it up by making it complicated.”

The rejection felt like a physical blow. You swallowed hard, nodding slowly as you pulled your hand back to your lap. “Right. Okay. I won’t ruin it.”

You got out of the car that night with a fractured heart, and the wall between you turned to concrete.

College was a masterclass in tiptoeing.

You both fell into a larger circle of friends, which made it easier to hide the tension.

It was a Friday night at Gojo’s off-campus apartment. The music was vibrating through the floorboards, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and weed. You were sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs, watching the chaos unfold in the living room.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” a soft voice said.

You looked over to see Choso leaning against the fridge, holding out a red Solo cup filled with water.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, taking the cup with a grateful smile.

“Only to people paying attention,” he replied, taking a sip of his own drink. His eyes held yours for a second longer than necessary, warm and steady.

Across the room, you felt the weight of a stare. You didn’t even have to look to know it was Sukuna. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa, a beer dangling losely from his fingers, his eyes narrowed as he watched you and Choso.

“Are you two ever gonna just fuck and get it over with?” Gojo yelled over the music, slinging an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders and pointing at you.

The entire room seemed to quiet down for a split second. Utahime smacked the back of Gojo’s head. “Satoru, shut the fuck up.”

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!” Gojo whined, rubbing his head.

“Fuck off,” Sukuna snarled, shoving Gojo’s arm off him. He didn’t look at you. He just stood up and walked out onto the balcony, slamming the sliding glass door behind him.

You forced a laugh, looking down at your water. “He’s just drunk. Ignore him.”

Choso didn’t laugh. He just watched you carefully. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, your chest aching. “I’m good.”

That was how it went for years. Always okay with how things were, but never enough. Sukuna was always there—he helped you move apartments, he threatened guys who looked at you wrong, he remembered your coffee order down to the exact amount of sugar. But he never crossed the line. He kept you safely in the ‘best friend’ box, terrified that if he took you out, he’d break you.

And you let him. Because having a piece of him was better than having nothing at all.

_______

It was a few weeks before graduation. The reality of the real world was looming over all of you, making everyone a little more reckless, a little more desperate to hold onto the present. You were all gathered in Shoko’s living room, sitting in a messy circle on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles of tequila.

“Alright, Never Have I Ever,” Geto announced, leaning back against the couch. “Never have I ever… failed a class and lied to my parents about it.”

Gojo, Shoko, and Utahime drank.

The game went on, the questions getting progressively more invasive as the alcohol hit. You were sitting cross-legged, your knee almost brushing Sukuna’s. He was quiet tonight, his eyes heavy and dark as he watched the group. Choso was sitting on your other side, his presence a comforting weight.

“My turn,” Shoko said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. She looked around the circle, “Never have I ever… been in love with someone in this room.”

The room went silent.

Gojo smirked and took a sip. Geto rolled his eyes but drank. Utahime glared at Gojo and took a shot.

You stared at your cup. Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You could've lied, but you didn't. You were twenty-two years old. You were graduating. You were so goddamn tired of hiding, so you made one selfish thing. One desperate move that you onow would open a pandora box within this corcle.

You raised your cup to your lips and took a long drink.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sukuna freeze. His hand, which had been resting on his knee, gripped the fabric of his jeans so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn’t drink.

“Oh, shit,” Gojo whispered, leaning forward. “Spill.”

“No,” Nanami said, adjusting his glasses. “That’s not the game. Leave it.”

“Don't be a party pooper,” Satoru suddenly said, a hint of mischievousness strengthen by the alcohol evident in his voice. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes burning into yours. “Who?”

The room felt like it had been sucked into a vacuum. Sukuna shifted beside you, his knees tensing, but he didn’t say a word.

“Satoru, drop it,” Geto warned softly.

“What! I'm just asking?” Satoru repeated, ignoring everyone else. You met his gaze, the tequila making you brave, or maybe just stupid. “You want to know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

You didn't need to mention his name, you looked beside you; towards Sukuna, and he was looking intensely at you, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking. “You. Since we were fourteen.”

Someone—probably Utahime—sucked in a sharp breath.

Sukuna stared at you, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His expression shattered, the indifference slipping to reveal absolute panic. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“But it doesn’t matter,” you continued, forcing a bitter smile. You set your cup down on the floor and stood up. “Because you’d rather be safe than be with me. I’m gonna go get some air.”

You walked out of the apartment, the heavy silence following you down the hallway. You made it to the alleyway behind the building before the tears started falling. You leaned against the brick wall, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself against the chill of the night.

The heavy metal door creaked open a minute later. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Did you mean it?” Sukuna asked. His voice was stripped of all its usual arrogance.

You wiped your cheeks roughly. “Why would I lie about that? I tried once when we were in freshman, remember?”

He stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. He looked wrecked. “Since we were fourteen?”

“Yes, Sukuna. Are you really that blind?”

“I’m not blind,” he snapped, running both hands over his face. “I’m just… fuck. You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you yelled, pushing off the wall. “Explain why you look at me like you want me, why you act like I’m yours, but the second I try to make it real, you push me away!”

“Because I ruin everything!” he yelled back, his chest heaving. “Look at me! I’m a fucking mess. I’m angry, I’m selfish, and I destroy everything I touch. You are the only beautiful thing in my life. If we try this, and we crash and burn… I lose you. I can’t lose you. I would rather have you as my friend forever than have you as mine for a year and lose you for the rest of my life.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and devastating.

You looked at him, really looked at him. At the fear in his eyes, the desperate way he was holding himself together. He loved you. He loved you so much it terrified him.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “By not trying… you’re losing me anyway. I can’t keep waiting for you to be brave enough to love me out loud.”

He flinched, taking a step back as if you had struck him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m done waiting. I'm asking you now, please... just please let's try and make it work.” He stared at you long, voice dying in his throat. He wasn't used to feeling anything other than anger, of all the times he felt happiness.. it was all during the times he shared with you.

He wasn't sure if he can risk losing you, the first time he felt like the world favored him was today, when he heard that you wantes to be with him.. but what can a broken man do when he was raised to believe that all the things he own will be destroyed one day?

When Sukuna didn't speak, you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t reach out to stop you. He just stood there in the dark, letting you go to save the friendship.

_____

Four years later.

The music swells, a soft acoustic melody that fills the garden. The sun is shining, catching the delicate lace of your white dress as you stand at the beginning of the aisle.

You take a deep breath, clutching the bouquet of white roses in your hands. Your father pats your arm, smiling proudly.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” you whisper.

You start walking. The faces of your friends and family blur together, a sea of smiles and happy tears. Gojo is dabbing his eyes dramatically with a handkerchief, Geto is laughing at him, Shoko is smiling softly, and Utahime looks like she’s trying not to cry.

And then, at the end of the aisle, is Choso.

He looks incredibly handsome in his tailored suit, his dark hair pulled back neatly. But it’s his eyes that ground you. They are so full of love, so steady, so absolutely certain. Choso never hesitated.

From the moment you took his hand that night after the party when you went inside, after Sukuna stayed quiet, after Sukuna stayed a coward; Choso on the otherhand made it clear that he wanted you. All of you. He wasn’t afraid of ruining anything, because he was determined to build something unbreakable.

You smile, your heart swelling with a quiet, peaceful kind of love.

You walked, eyes catching the movement in the front row, on the bride’s side.

Sukuna.

He’s wearing a suit, which is a miracle in itself. His hair is pushed back, and he looks older, sharper. He is your Man of Honor, a title he accepted with a tight smile and a nod when you asked him six months ago.

You meet his eyes as you pass by his row.

He is smiling at you, a soft, genuine smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are screaming. They are filled with a grief so profound, an agony so deep, it almost makes you stumble.

In that split second, an entire lifetime passes between you. The scraped knees, the late-night drives, the shared looks across crowded rooms, the unspoken words that suffocated you both.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

He kept his promise. He stayed your best friend, your constant, the guy who helped you pick out the catering menu for your wedding and threatened the florist when they got the order wrong.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

As you break eye contact and look back at Choso, stepping up to the altar and taking your soon-to-be husband’s hands, Sukuna realizes the devastating truth.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

But he never won either.

He watches you smile at Choso, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way you look so incredibly safe and loved. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat feeling like shattered glass. He wishes he could say he never lost you. He wishes he could say that keeping you as a friend was enough.

Choso’s thumb gently strokes the back of your hand as the officiant speaks; Sukuna lowers his head, staring at the grass beneath his polished shoes.

He kept you in his life. But he lost you all the same. Atleast he didn't ruin the friendship... right?

an: the way i yearn for bestfriend sukuna fic where he doesn't end up w reader; i've had the song ruin the friendship stuck in my mind for the past 2 weeks and I had to write this down.. i should've just killed him off here, but i can't. ⚰️🫵🏻

[bambismoon]

apocolypse - prologue undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]

∞︎︎

you had come to the conclusion that your soulmate was either a felon or a cold-blooded murderer. 

you were leaning more towards the latter. 

there were only so many times you could wake up with sore ribs and aching knuckles before starting to consider homicide as a genuine career path for your soulmate. 

you were sixteen years old when you began feeling what he felt and he rarely felt happiness. 

at sixteen, you remembered clinging onto hope, faith that things would change for the better. 

at nineteen, you tried denial. optimism even. maybe he just had niche hobbies? 

now, at twenty-two, exhausted and running on three hours of sleep and an unhealthy dependence on caffeine, you had finally settled on acceptance. 

your soulmate was batshit crazy, absolutely insane.

the realization came to you somewhere between waking up at three in the morning because someone was being beaten up and nearly throwing up on the marble floors of your bathroom after feeling a wave of adrenaline so violent, it couldn’t possibly belong to a sane person. 

you blamed him for the dark circles under your eyes, as well as the chronic irritability, insomnia and the emotional damage too. 

“hey sunshine!”

you glanced up from your kitchen island to see shoko freely walking into your apartment as if it was her own. which, considering the amount of time she spent there, perhaps it was. 

“you look awful.” utahime voiced from beside her as she walked towards your fridge, pulling out a bottle of coconut water, “devils dick wouldn't let you sleep again?” 

you stared blankly out at the city skyline stretching beyond the floor to ceiling windows, morning fog curled between skyscrapers while the city below came to life beneath streaks of pale sunlight, almost pink. 

“yes,” you replied bluntly, taking a sip of the black coffee in hand, “unless i’m the one suddenly developing anger issues and an overwhelming desire to commit aggravated assault.” 

shoko snorted into her matcha at your words, though a thin layer of concern blanketed her eyes as she watched you.

you felt it before you saw him, the soft fur brushing against your ankles as you looked down at the familiar tuft of brown, “hi, ani.”

the cat purred against you lowly, circling your feet once before making his way towards the porcelain bowl filled with his breakfast. 

it was a bit sad how your cat was your one companion in the vast penthouse you resided in. technically, the house belonged to your parents who were overseas so often, it was entirely in your possession alongside an absurd monthly allowance and very little supervision. 

most people your age would’ve killed for this kind of freedom. 

a luxury apartment in the middle of the city, prestigious university and a future already carved out neatly in front of you. 

from an outside perspective, your life was perfect. 

except for the stain beneath the surface of everything. him. 

a constant you despised, yet he was all too impossible to ignore. 

most soulmates exchanged softness through their bond. love, warmth and peace. 

you exchanged pain, phantom bruises and what you were fairly certain was unresolved psychological trauma.

“how bad was it?” shoko questioned as she sat on the stool by the island.

you considered the question for a moment. 

truly, last night wasn’t his worst night but it wasn’t his best either. 

“my left thigh kinda hurts.” 

“ooh,” she winced, “that’s new.” 

“yup. he’s branching out,” you brought your cup up to your lips, “lucky me.” 

the soulmate bond manifested differently for everyone, but emotional and physical sensations were universal. tiny things passed between soulmates all the time, including stress, exhaustion, happiness and lust. 

utahime once told you soulmates were a blessing. 

you’d nearly laughed in her face. did she know what a blessing was? 

“maybe he’s in jail.’ shoko offered lazily as utahime immediately shot her a look. 

you looked up at the girl. jail? 

you almost hoped he was, that way the chances of meeting the son of a bitch were practically down to zero. you didn't want anything to do with the sadistic motherfucker. 

your friends found your situation significantly sadder than you did, mostly because all of them had experienced their bond the way it was intended. 

warm, soft and disgustingly tender.

utahime met sora during your graduation trip to greece. it was in the middle of a beach club and you distinctly recalled the way utahime went all quiet, the way they couldn’t look away from each other despite utahime always swearing that fate had handcrafted him specifically to irritate her. 

you don’t remember how they progressed, only that they did. more than you could even imagine.

shoko met percy during your welcome week in freshman year, all anxious minds and bright eyes. you remembered the way shoko used to continuously rub the bridge of her nose because she claimed her soulmate wore the heaviest glasses on earth. then there he was. tousled hair, thick-rimmed glasses and all. 

they’ve been inseparable ever since. 

sometimes, you felt like the worst person alive because you resented them, just a little bit. 

not because they were happy, but because they got softness where you got violence. 

if you closed your eyes, just for a moment, you could recall exactly when you'd first felt him.

while walking through the school hall in first year, the most overwhelming sense of fear overcame you. real and true terror, practically paralyzing you in place. dread that was raw and sharp, crashing into your ribs hard enough to steal the air right from your lungs. 

then came the pain, something you’d grow all too familiar with. 

pain that only got worse with age. 

you found yourself continuously trying to make sense of the colossal question mark that was your soulmate. who was he? what was he so afraid of? why was he in constant pain? 

still, you learned the rhythm of him. 

it was embarrassing, honestly. you knew things about your soulmate that no stranger should know. 

you knew he preferred sleeping on his back because his shoulders were always too bruised to lie on comfortably. you knew he clenched his jaw till his molars hurt when he was furious. you knew he rarely slept through the night and how he carried exhaustion like it was stitched into his bones. 

and worst of all, you knew exactly what his anger felt like and it was ugly. not explosive or wild in a dramatic sense but controlled. 

it sat low in your stomach like a rock, dangerous and waiting. 

sometimes, in the middle of lectures, your chest would suddenly tighten for absolutely no reason and you’d know instantly. 

those were the worst days and they happened more often than you’d like. 

your body would grow tense hours before it even happened, as if it already knew what was coming. your pulse would spike and adrenaline would drip into your bloodstream until your own fingers twitch with restlessness. 

then came the impact. a burst of pain and the metallic taste of blood in your mouth that you could never see. 

panic used to fill you at the sensation and now, you’d barely flinch. 

“again?” utahime would whisper from beside you during your labs. 

you’d simply nod. 

apparently, your soulmate enjoyed fist fighting at eight in the fucking monring. truthfully, you didn’t know what scared you more. the violence itself or how used to it you’ve become. 

because despite everything, the resentment sitting bitter on your tongue every time he dragged you into another sleepless night, you still found yourself searching for him constantly. 

in crowds, trains and crossing busy streets. but you never felt his presence around, so you knew they were futile attempts.

you hated that too. the way your body longed for someone your mind already decided was a monster. the devil reincarnated. 

sometimes, late at night, when the city outside your windows finally quieted down and the skyline blurred into soft hues of orange and pink, you’d feel him lying awake. 

always restless and consistently pained. 

there was something deeply unsettling about sharing insomnia with a stranger. 

you’d feel him shifting endlessly beneath bedsheets, the tension in his shoulders and agitation under his skin. occasionally, the dull ache of old bruises blooming across muscle. 

those nights left you exhausted and you always tried to ignore it at first, but one night, half-asleep and irritated beyond relief, you wrapped your arms around yourself beneath your comforter with a frustrated little sigh. a weak attempt to offer him a semblance of comfort. 

go the fuck to sleep. 

the effect was so immediate, it had your heart growing erratic. 

you felt him still, completely and truly. a calm settled over your chest like a balm on wound. 

after that, it became routine. 

you’d discovered a hack of some sort. 

to get through to him, you have to act as if you are him. 

you’d taken up yoga with hime because it seemed to ease his sore muscles. 

some nights, you’d feel him spiraling so violently with anger so strong, it crawled beneath your own skin. on those nights, you’d sit on your balcony overlooking the starry night enveloping the skyline in a deep blue. a case of markers in hand along with an adults coloring book. one of those complex ones with multiple minuscule shapes.

and color, you did. because it seemed to soothe him. 

you knew it because you could feel it happen in real time. 

the slow loosening of tension beneath skin and the steadying of his heartbeat. then the exhaustion would finally pull him under. 

it felt strangely intimate. 

though it started selfishly because you wanted the rest, you soon began doing it for him. 

sometimes, you wondered if he knew it was you. 

if he realized that the sudden calmness swallowing him whole at three in the morning belonged to somebody else. 

if he knew his soulmate sat forty floors above the city in pretty pink pyjamas and color stained hands trying to soothe a rage she didn’t understand. 

the thought made your chest ache because you knew he knew. 

despite how badly fate had screwed you over, he was still yours. 

and somehow, horrifyingly, you were still his. 

despite it all, he still felt so unbearably human. 

most nights were spent peacefully from that day on, for the most part. 

you could tolerate him now but there were still quieter nights where he couldn’t sleep. 

the bond grew restless during those hours, tension humming beneath your skin like static. you’d feel him, his exhaustion weighing heavy in your own bones despite the fact that you’d done absolutely nothing all day besides write up your report. 

“he’s awake…” you mumbled one night, shoko glancing up from where she sat on the couch in your room, typing up her essay on her laptop despite the deadline being three hours ago. 

“again?” shoko huffed, “does this guy not sleep?” 

you simply hummed once because sometimes he does. when you help him sleep. 

it was all too intimate in the worst way possible. 

at times, you felt like he lived beneath your skin more than inside his own body. 

when you wrapped your arms around yourself, mumbling a go to sleep, somewhere across the city, your soulmate listened. 

one emotion you both felt was the soul-tying loneliness. 

you understood loneliness, grown up and made friends with it. 

it seems he did as well. he dealt with his in a different way than you did yours, though. 

it happened late one night when you were halfway through your night routine. 

at first, it was subtle, a warmth against your lips. 

your movements slowed instantly, fingers hovering near your face as confusion knitted your brows together. what the fuck?

then came another sensation, this time featherlight touches across your jaw. 

your stomach dropped because what followed was the most excruciating pain you’d ever felt, exploding through your body so suddenly, your serum bottle slipped from your hands and shattered across the bathroom floor. 

and you collapsed with it. 

a gasp tore from your throat as agony spread violently beneath your skin, hot enough to make your vision blur. it felt all wrong, burning and suffocating. 

you knew exactly what was happening. 

he was touching someone else. 

you remembered shoko mentioning it once after utahime drunkenly asked too many questions about soulmate bonds during freshman year. 

physical intimacy with someone who wasn't your soulmate caused backlash through the bond. 

“apparently, it feels awful,” shoko stated, “super painful.”

awful? that fucking liar. 

this wasn’t just awful. you felt like you were burning. 

you curled against the cold marble tiles, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach as another wave of pain hit hard enough to drag a broken sound from your throat. it felt like being split apart from the inside out as tears blurred your vision. 

“stop…” you whispered shakily, though you didn’t know who you were talking to anymore. 

him? fate?

the pain built as you continued to feel touches that weren’t yours, warm skin that wasn’t yours. 

someone else’s hands against him. 

it made you sick. 

humiliation mixed violently with heartbreak until you could barely breath through it, till you sobbed against yours hands. 

messy and continuous tears soaked your sleeves as you sat on the bathroom floor, fury and devastation clawing through you so violently, you didn’t knwo what to do. 

“i hate you!” you choked out as your lungs burned. 

you felt the sudden stillness instantly, followed by a hollow feeling in your gut.

it hit your ribs so unexpectedly, your chest caught. 

guilt. real guilt. 

your expression twisted immediately. that sick son of a bitch. 

that only angered you more. 

you dug your nails into your palms hard enough to break skin and pain shot through you then, wanting him to feel it, to hurt the way he always made you hurt. 

you slammed your first against the tile once, twice then again as your knuckles split open eventually but you barely noticed. 

then suddenly…warmth. 

you went still, breathing shaking unevenly as the sensation wrapped around you in an unfamiliar fashion. 

it was a pair of arms, strong as they held you. 

your breathing stuttered as you processed what was happening. 

was he…hugging himself? like how you would? 

he was holding himself because he didn’t know how else to reach you, to console you. 

your anger cracked slightly at the edges because for the first time in years, he felt close. not in his usual worrying or irritating way.

and no matter how much you hated yourself for it, you leaned into it. 

because after all, you were just as lonely as he seemed to be.

after that day, even following his piteous attempt at comfort, you were vengeful. 

gone were the nights you’d hold yourself, him, to sleep. gone were the late night drawings or the yoga classes, the massages for his sore muscles and the relaxing teas. 

gone was your gentleness along with any semblance of hope you had clung onto like snow on mountains. 

you fucking hated fate. 

∞

“maybe he’s dead.” shoko offered as you glanced up at her from the blaring screen of your laptop, illuminating your face in the darkness.

utahime shot her a look as you sighed gently. 

you weren’t sure if her words were meant to console you but you weren’t sure they did. 

you hated him, yes, but did you want him dead? 

the thought sent a pang up your chest. no, you didn’t.

because you hadn’t even met him yet. 

where all your friends had already fulfilled their bonds, you were left pondering the possibility of fate playing a sick trick on you, 

“i mean, with all the fights he gets into, i wouldn’t be surprised.” shoko continued, her words trailing off as she caught utahime’s glare. 

you shook your head once, ignoring the tightness beneath your ribs, “if he was dead, who the fuck am i feeling every day?”

shoko hummed once, as if pondering the thought, “maybe he’s in hell!”

now, that seemed probable. 

rain tapped gently against the windows while blond played softly in the background as you returned your attention back to the half-finished page in front of you.

it was oddly peaceful in a way you weren’t used to. which meant he was either asleep or unconscious. 

honestly, both possibilities reassured you equally so. 

“you need to leave your castle, princess.” utahime smiled mockingly from her place on your carpeted floor as you rolled your eyes gently, fingers pausing atop your keyboard. 

“why?” you muttered, thumb absentmindedly rubbing soft circles against your wrist. 

“um, because of human interaction?” shoko dropped onto your bed, arms and legs starfished across the plush white sheets atop your king sized bed. 

you rolled your eyes once more, “and you guys are…?”

both girls grumbled at your response making you smile softly, looking back down at your laptop as ani purred from his place curled at your feet. 

you did leave your home! how else would you shop? or attend your lectures? or get your sixth coffee of the day?

“there’s a party downtown tonight.” shoko grinned at you genty, practically soft-launching the idea as you scoffed once. 

“ew.” 

“don’t say ew with that stupid face like you’re old!”

“m’not old,” you shrugged, “i’d just rather do anything else.”

shoko huffed, sitting up on your bed before walking towards your place on the couch, "you always do anything else! you’ve been so down recently, just let us help!”

you almost wanted to laugh. a party wouldn’t help by any means. 

instead, you swallowed quietly, looking back down at your laptop. 

he had been strangely distant lately, ever the rage-filled psychopath, but quieter somehow. you didn’t know if you liked it or not. 

“c’mon,” utahime pleaded, “just one night!” 

before you could answer, you felt it again. 

a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins so suddenly, your jaw clenched. 

the room went quiet as utahime’s expression shifted, “devils dick?”

you sighed inwardly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. 

it was a familiar feeling, hot and electric and so fucking alive beneath your skin. you didn’t want to wait for the pain to follow. 

“okay.” 

the girls exchanged a look. 

“okay?!” shoko exclaimed with a grin as you sighed gently. 

“that’s what i said.” 

her squeals were met with silence as you tried to calm your-his-breathing. 

there was this weird feeling in your gut, deep and carved in stone, like tonight was significant. 

it felt almost damning.

∞

an - just a little glimpse into this worlddd! no kuna in this yet so :( but u guys will meet him ch1 !! also this is prob gonna be a shorter seriessss like 6-8 parts!

anyways lmk what u guys thinkkkk and if u want more of this au!

also wanna say i read a fic like 7ish yrs ago on here from @/stuckonspidey, i dont think they're on here anymore but they had a soulmate fic that inspired this that i wrote a while ago sooo credits to themmm i remember loving that fic smmmm! :)

[opalwyn-deactivated20260524]

Synopsis: Missing the 4:15 train was supposed to be the worst part of the day. Then comes the fall, the ruined project, and the boy you haven’t seen since nineteen standing in front of you.

A/N: YAY i have no more assignments to do! for now 🚬 sigh sigh. Anywho, here have this sukuna thing i wrote not too long ago. i lowkey need to write for more characters besides sukuna but whatevs ✌️ now its time to catch up and read all the fics ive been tagged in IF ANYONE KNOWS THE ARTIST PUH LEASUH lmk so i can credit them :3 peace out ✌️😗

4:00 PM at the studio and it looks like a craft store exploded and nobody survived. Foam models everywhere, tracing paper curling at the edges and abandoned rulers—stationery is scattered everywhere. Hours of meticulous cutting and glueing angles together with the precision of a surgeon. You dont want to see your side profile right now—hunched over, spine curled. Your lecturer is still halfway through a sentence—“Now don’t forget next week’s crit—” but you’ve already stuffed your bag, cradled your final model against your chest, and bolted. If you miss the 4:15 train, you’re doomed.

Rushing out of the building, a cold breeze skims your face, making you pause. 

Grey skies. 

"Please don’t rain" you whisper. Not today. Not with this delicate, hours-shaved-off-your-lifespan bridge model balanced in your arms like a newborn. Your backpack digs into your shoulder and your laptop feels like a brick, but the second you push through the heavy uni doors, the sky chooses violence.

Rain.

Not the soft, cinematic kind either. No slowmo, no dramatic soundtrack. This is biblical punishment. It slaps against your face like it has something personal against you. Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your cheeks, your socks are squelching, and you can feel one false lash lifting at the corner. Fantastic. You refuse to check. If you don’t confirm it, it’s not happening. With a groan you whip out your flimsy project folder and attempt to shield the model, but unfortunately it soaks through immediately becoming useless—bending, sagging, giving up on life.

“Perfect” you huff “the only time I don't bring an umbrella.” There’s no time to rummage through your bag. Your legs break into a run.

By the time you reach the station, it’s chaos.

The stairs are basically a waterfall. The air smells like wet clothes and impatience. People are packed together, moving just slow enough to ruin your life. Someone elbows your project and you nearly hiss at them. 

Okay, okay, I haven't slipped yet... surprisingly. I’ve got this.

The announcement crackles overhead: “The 4:15 train on Platform 3 departs in one minute.”

Uh oh.

Clutching the model tighter, you shove through commuters who seem frozen in a self-important, slowmo montage. Now is not the time for everyone’s imaginary film. “Excuse me, sorry, can I just—” Nobody moves. The train honks, the sound echoing through the tunnel. The doors appear through the gaps in the crowd, and in a moment of pure desperation, you lunge for the gap.

 Nope.

You slam into something solid. Your folder flies, toothpicks scatter, and your foam bridge is crushed instantly. Pencils clatter across the wet tiles. In a masterpiece of public humiliation, you nearly eat the platform in front of the entire city. A few people gasp—someone laughs. The train doors chime and close, leaving without you.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Heat floods your cheeks as rainwater drips from your lashes. You’re still processing the loss of your dignity, and possibly your will to live when a hand appears in front of you and your stomach drops. Those tattoos—the ones your first boyfriend got illegally at sixteen. The ones you said goodbye to at nineteen.

A voice you haven't heard in years says quietly, “Careful.”

Your eyes lift. Sukuna.

Not "memory" Sukuna—not the sixteen year old with bike grease on his fingers and not nineteen year old who you said goodbye to. Real Sukuna. His pink hair is damp, and a black leather jacket is stretched across his broad shoulders. Still unfairly good looking, which feels a bit disrespectful, honestly. Tsk tsk. 

For a second, the station noise blurs. Your heart recognises him before your mind can catch up. He crouches immediately, collecting the broken pieces of your project “Still carrying too much at once” sukuna mutters—it’s what he used to say in high school whenever you overloaded your backpack or carried too many textbooks to class. Of course he remembers that. You forgot. Or at least, you told yourself you did.

“I…” Your voice trips over itself. “Sukuna?”

He glances up, smirking slightly. “Who else?”

Sukuna gathers your things and before you can decide how to exist properly, he’s already steering you out of the way, guiding you into a quieter corner. His hand barely touches your arm, but it’s enough to make your thoughts scatter all over again. His frame blocks out most of the crowd and you end up with your back against the cold wall.

“You okay?”

Frick no. I just face planted, my lashes are fighting for their lives, and my degree is currently a pile of wet toothpicks.

But instead of crying, you laugh weakly. “I’ve had more glamorous reunions in my head.”

Something flickers in his face—regret? He stands way too close. “What are you doing here?” you ask, dusting off your jeans.

“Holiday.”

Right. Because that explains everything.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Not that he would’ve. You’re not even in contact anymore.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah? And you didn’t tell me you were moving halfway across the world until the last minute.”

There it is—that old heartache. You didn’t break because you stopped loving each other; you broke because love wanted one thing and life wanted another. You want to ask if he missed you. If he ever thought about calling. If he has—

“Well.”

A woman’s voice cuts through the air. Sukuna turns slowly—unbothered. You look over: long black hair, makeup on fleek, an outfit that hasn't touched a single drop of rain. She looks like she belongs in a perfume ad meanwhile,you resemble a drowned raccoon. She loops an arm through his, her manicured nails digging into the leather of his sleeve.

“What do we have here, babe?”

Babe. It’s a physical slap.

Sukuna glances at you, then away. “We just ran into each other” he says casually. “Helped the girl pick up her project.”

The girl. Not your name. Just a girl. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

“And what is this girl’s name?” she asks, smiling sweetly in a way that isn’t sweet at all. Her eyes flick to the soggy pile of foam and toothpicks in your arms. “How... ambitious. It’s very abstract now, isn't it?”

You let out an awkward laugh and introduce yourself. She smiles, nodding like it’ll mean something for all of five seconds.

“Yorozu.”

A smile comes out, trying to look normal while your heart is a wreckage site. Sukuna says nothing, his expression unreadable, though his jaw tightens when Yorozu leans closer into him. “Come on, babe, we’re gonna be late.” She tugs his arm, then glances back at you. “Nice meeting you… I guess.”

You force a nod. It feels a little too familiar—standing there, watching Sukuna leave. Nineteen at the airport all over again, watching him walk away. You look down at your ruined project—bent edges and water damage. Everything you built is collapsing.

Then, his voice reaches you one last time. “You should get home before you catch a cold.” It’s an ordinary sentence, but it sounds like buried affection clawing through the dirt. You don’t look up fast enough—by the time you do, he’s already disappearing into the crowd, his black jacket swallowed by the swamp of people and her hand still looped through his arm.

You stand there soaked, watching the boy you loved become a stranger in real time. You laugh once, brokenly. Because, of course, seeing him again would feel like reopening a letter you never finished reading.

The next train screams into the station. People surge forward, but you don’t move. Eventually, you get on. Eventually, you sit. And slowly, everything settles—It’s only halfway home that something feels off. Your hand pauses mid-rummage through your bag. Your pencil—the expensive mechanical one with your initials scratched into it. “Seriously?” you mutter, digging deeper like it might magically reappear.

You’re mid manhunt through your bag, huffing, “Ugh, what now?” when your phone buzzes. An Instagram notification—a username untouched for years. You thought he’d blocked you.

r_sukuna sent a photo.

You open it instantly. It’s a photo of his tattooed hand holding your pencil.

r_sukuna: I have it.

Bastard. He pocketed it while helping you. 

Some people leave; some people take pieces of you with them. Somehow, he’s always done both.

A/N: bruh this was kinda bootycheeks but ayooo how do we get that pencil back? 👀

[seoyue]

murder, your grace?

synopsis: You die completely at random and wake up in the manhwa you were reading… as the villainous wife of the Duke of the North, no less. The same woman who spent the last six months giving her husband the cold shoulder, ruining their marriage, and basically speedrunning her own execution. Now you have exactly one job: fix this disaster of a relationship before your husband decides to finish what the original plot started.

pairing: villainess!reader x northern duke!sukuna

mdni | warnings: smut, fem reader, rough sex, size kink & size difference, possessive/jealous behavior, degradation, dirty talk, marking, spanking, creampie, multiple positions

word count: 14.3k

a\n: longest fic i’ve written so far. nearly lost my mind, almost scrapped it entirely, questioned every life choice that led me here, but somehow, against all odds… it’s done. so glad its over LOL

You died while reading a manhwa.

One moment you were curled up in bed at 3 a.m., a blanket pulled up to your chin, the only light in your dark room coming from your phone screen. Your eyes were glued to the latest chapter of The Duke’s Black Heart, thumb hovering over the final panel as frustration and reluctant longing twisted in your chest. The illustration was breathtakingly brutal: Duke Ryomen Sukuna standing tall amid swirling snow, pink hair tousled by the wind, crimson eyes empty of mercy, black tattoos stark against his skin as he looked down at the broken body of his wife.

The page loaded one last time. The panel filled your screen. Then your vision blurred, the room spun violently, and everything went black. No pain. No final breath. Just sudden, heavy nothing.

And then you woke up somewhere else.

Cold air rushes into your lungs, sharp and biting. Your eyes flutter open slowly, lashes feeling unusually heavy. You’re lying in a massive four-poster bed, the canopy above you made of thick crimson velvet that drapes down like heavy curtains. The silk sheets beneath you are cool and slippery against your skin in a way that feels far too expensive, far too unfamiliar. Thick blankets weighted with fur press down on your body, carrying a faint scent of woodsmoke and aged iron. Your limbs feel wrong — too slender, too delicate. When you lift your hands, they are smaller, with smooth palms and perfectly manicured nails that catch the dim morning light filtering through tall, frost-laced windows.

You push yourself up into a sitting position. The silk nightgown slips off one shoulder. A large, ornately framed mirror stands across the room, reflecting the lavish bedchamber: dark wood furniture, heavy tapestries on the walls, a fireplace crackling faintly in the corner. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone that sends a shiver racing up your spine.

You turn toward the mirror.

The face staring back at you is not your own. It is strikingly beautiful in a refined, aristocratic way that feels both alien and intimidating.

You have transmigrated.

You are now the villainess.

Duke Ryomen Sukuna’s wife of exactly six months.

The realization slams into you like ice water. Memories that don’t belong to you flood your mind in vivid, unrelenting flashes. The forced marriage ceremony under the Emperor’s decree. The wedding night where her body had lain stiff and unresponsive beneath his, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she called him a beast under her breath and swore she would never allow him to touch her again. Six agonizing months of total, deliberate silence: never speaking a single word directly to him, never sharing his table, never sharing his bed. Only curt notes passed through servants, hidden schemes whispered to outsiders, and a cold, hateful distance that grew sharper every day. Sukuna’s contempt had hardened into something lethal.

In the original story, he kills her. Publicly. Brutally. Before the year is out — dragging her into the courtyard and ending her life with the same large, scarred hands you’ve fantasized about for months.

And now I’m her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.

There he is.

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

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

His knife stops mid-cut.

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

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

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

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

The words hang in the air.

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

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

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

“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gruff “Come in” came from inside.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.

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

Then his crimson eyes flicked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t argue.

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

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

That went badly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning arrived quietly.

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

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

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

About an hour later, the door opened.

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

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

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

You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t ask you to leave.

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

It wasn’t much.

But it also wasn’t outright rejection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firm knock sounded at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I would,” you replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought she hated him…”

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

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

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

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, you were alone.

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

A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music swelled again around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna…” you started softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.

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

“Wait…”

Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a long second he just stared.

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

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

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

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

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

The silence was heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t pull away immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t make him wait long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no point in holding back anymore. 

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t hesitate any longer.

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

Then he took control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pushed forward slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna went feral.

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

You were cockdrunk almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t let go.

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

All rights reserved © 2026 seoyue. No part of my work may be copied, reposted, modified, translated, or claimed as your own on any platform.

[seoyue]

murder, your grace?

synopsis: You die completely at random and wake up in the manhwa you were reading… as the villainous wife of the Duke of the North, no less. The same woman who spent the last six months giving her husband the cold shoulder, ruining their marriage, and basically speedrunning her own execution. Now you have exactly one job: fix this disaster of a relationship before your husband decides to finish what the original plot started.

pairing: villainess!reader x northern duke!sukuna

mdni | warnings: smut, fem reader, rough sex, size kink & size difference, possessive/jealous behavior, degradation, dirty talk, marking, spanking, creampie, multiple positions

word count: 14.3k

a\n: longest fic i’ve written so far. nearly lost my mind, almost scrapped it entirely, questioned every life choice that led me here, but somehow, against all odds… it’s done. so glad its over LOL

You died while reading a manhwa.

One moment you were curled up in bed at 3 a.m., a blanket pulled up to your chin, the only light in your dark room coming from your phone screen. Your eyes were glued to the latest chapter of The Duke’s Black Heart, thumb hovering over the final panel as frustration and reluctant longing twisted in your chest. The illustration was breathtakingly brutal: Duke Ryomen Sukuna standing tall amid swirling snow, pink hair tousled by the wind, crimson eyes empty of mercy, black tattoos stark against his skin as he looked down at the broken body of his wife.

The page loaded one last time. The panel filled your screen. Then your vision blurred, the room spun violently, and everything went black. No pain. No final breath. Just sudden, heavy nothing.

And then you woke up somewhere else.

Cold air rushes into your lungs, sharp and biting. Your eyes flutter open slowly, lashes feeling unusually heavy. You’re lying in a massive four-poster bed, the canopy above you made of thick crimson velvet that drapes down like heavy curtains. The silk sheets beneath you are cool and slippery against your skin in a way that feels far too expensive, far too unfamiliar. Thick blankets weighted with fur press down on your body, carrying a faint scent of woodsmoke and aged iron. Your limbs feel wrong — too slender, too delicate. When you lift your hands, they are smaller, with smooth palms and perfectly manicured nails that catch the dim morning light filtering through tall, frost-laced windows.

You push yourself up into a sitting position. The silk nightgown slips off one shoulder. A large, ornately framed mirror stands across the room, reflecting the lavish bedchamber: dark wood furniture, heavy tapestries on the walls, a fireplace crackling faintly in the corner. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone that sends a shiver racing up your spine.

You turn toward the mirror.

The face staring back at you is not your own. It is strikingly beautiful in a refined, aristocratic way that feels both alien and intimidating.

You have transmigrated.

You are now the villainess.

Duke Ryomen Sukuna’s wife of exactly six months.

The realization slams into you like ice water. Memories that don’t belong to you flood your mind in vivid, unrelenting flashes. The forced marriage ceremony under the Emperor’s decree. The wedding night where her body had lain stiff and unresponsive beneath his, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she called him a beast under her breath and swore she would never allow him to touch her again. Six agonizing months of total, deliberate silence: never speaking a single word directly to him, never sharing his table, never sharing his bed. Only curt notes passed through servants, hidden schemes whispered to outsiders, and a cold, hateful distance that grew sharper every day. Sukuna’s contempt had hardened into something lethal.

In the original story, he kills her. Publicly. Brutally. Before the year is out — dragging her into the courtyard and ending her life with the same large, scarred hands you’ve fantasized about for months.

And now I’m her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.

There he is.

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

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

His knife stops mid-cut.

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

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

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

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

The words hang in the air.

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

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

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

“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gruff “Come in” came from inside.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.

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

Then his crimson eyes flicked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t argue.

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

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

That went badly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning arrived quietly.

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

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

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

About an hour later, the door opened.

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

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

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

You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t ask you to leave.

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

It wasn’t much.

But it also wasn’t outright rejection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firm knock sounded at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I would,” you replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought she hated him…”

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

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

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

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, you were alone.

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

A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music swelled again around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna…” you started softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.

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

“Wait…”

Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a long second he just stared.

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

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

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

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

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

The silence was heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t pull away immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t make him wait long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no point in holding back anymore. 

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t hesitate any longer.

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

Then he took control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pushed forward slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna went feral.

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

You were cockdrunk almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t let go.

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

All rights reserved © 2026 seoyue. No part of my work may be copied, reposted, modified, translated, or claimed as your own on any platform.

[idealgem]

Yours, Always Yours ❀ೃ࿔

Part 1: Puppy love

Pairing: Tiger Hybrid!Sukuna x fem!Deer Hybrid!Reader Word count: 2.6k Context: Hybrid au, College au, Childhood best friends to lovers, diversion w/ herbivores and carnivores, fluff & Angst, yearning, forbidden love Summary: Somehow, grumpy, difficult Sukuna became friends with you—a ray of sunshine back in kindergarten. From then on, you were inseparable. It takes him until the last year of high school to realize he’s in love with you. But the world is unkind, stomping the both of you until it causes the breakup. And yet, like a cruel joke, you both attended the same college. So naturally, you falling back into what you’ve always done best: being together. It’s fine. You’re friends… really! But after loving each other for so long—can you really stay just friends?

October- Last Year of High School

“I said– get down from there!” Sukuna hisses, his pink ears flattening against his head, red eyes tracing every one of your movements.

Rough bark scrapes against your palm as you climb a tree's trunk. You look down at Sukuna, his tail lashing back and forth anxiously. But the ripe apple just out of your reach is calling your name. It's blood red, looks juicy, and the sunlight hits it perfectly, making it look heavenly.

You have to have it.

Your head lolls away from him. “Calm down, Ryomen– It’s super close.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down– we picked a ton of apples, why the fuck do you need that one!” His hands cup the sides of his mouth, yelling on top of his lungs so the message can go through your head. But it doesn't.

The roll of your eyes makes him scoff in offense.

You reach out anyway– fingers extending to seize that apple.

It’s super close, it’s righttt there.

A push of your heels gives you enough boost for your fingers to curl around the fruit and pull it from the branch.

Snap!

“Aha!” One hand holds the apple, feeling its weight, while your smile widens with triumph.

“See?” A sudden ego boost blossoms within you, to prove Sukuna wrong. You take a step back on the sideways trunk, and his ears flick. “Told ya- it’s–”

The lean wood shifts against your weight.

Your foot slips– a simple misstep and you're falling.

And screaming– eyes squeeze shut and preparing for the pain of hitting the ground.

But you never do. Instead, you're caught by a strong set of arms catching you mid-fall.

A sharp exhale escapes you, and one eye blinks slowly.

“Tell me what–?” Sukuna tsks, leaning in at your face with an unsatisfied expression.

Your floppy ears droop in embarrassment, and you hide your face behind the apple you risk your life for. “You distracted me– I was fine!”

“You were not fine,” he grunts, his hold on you tightening. He adjusts your body on his arms, your weight nothing to him, before settling you on a tree stump.

“Was to.”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes flick back at you, making your mouth clamp closed.

His hand pushes the fabric of your long dress up, searching for any scratches. “Your parents would kill me if–”

“They know I’m safe with you.” You interrupt, copying his furrowed brows and frown.

He scoffs in response. His fingers slide down to your ankles, and he pauses there. “Do they?” His brow raises.

Sukuna’s hand continues to touch your skin, gentle and soft caressing despite being ridiculously, dangerously huge.

His Adam's apple bobs, before he slowly shifts and rests his head on your lap. “Think they’ll accept me as your boyfriend if you return with a broken leg?”

Your parents loved him…. when you were only a friend to him.

He was just baby ‘kuna’ then. They found it cute how he would stand up for you, and help you whenever you tripped. Sure, he was a carnivore hybrid, but that didn’t matter….

Until he slowly became something more.

They saw it before neither of you ever did.

That look in his eyes. The way his stare softened and lingered on you and only you, even when surrounded by others, smiling at you so casually, like it wasn’t a rare occurrence with anyone but you. And how he allowed you to call him whatever nicknames you made for him because you couldn’t pronounce it correctly as children.

“Come on, kids,— scoot closer, smile, do something! This photo is for your last year of high school.” Your dad had groaned, and the two of you stood awkwardly. Then his feet shifted, and his arm wrapped around your waist.

Your waist. Not your shoulder like a pal.

No two fingers behind your head to make bunny ears until you figure it out, and punch Sukuna’s chest and call him annoying.

No protest and whining, none of that ‘oh my gosh, seriously dad!’

No.

He simply pulled you closer, fingers tapping against your shirt and staring and the camera at that wasn’t clicking.

Your dad's suspicions spiked about something that wasn’t even there yet.

But blossoming.

Sukuna cleared his throat, and finally, your dad took the picture.

Suddenly, your parents were too busy to drop you off at his house. “Sweetie, you’ve been there a lot, don’t you want to hang out with your other friends?”

It confused you. Spending time with your best friend never was an issue.

They would point out every herbivore hybrid that passed by to see if you were even finding them attractive.

“So…any boys? It’s your last year, a lot of them make their moves around this time.” Your mom hummed, her fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel.

And they sure did. Sukuna had asked you out for homecoming. As friends, of course.

Until the dance had finished and you both kissed.

But you couldn’t tell your mom that. She would scowl whenever you even talked about him or brought him up in any conversation. She barely tolerated him now. You wanted to tell her the way your heart burst, how nervous and gentle it was, and talk about it like mother and daughter should.

But, you lied instead.

Because your mom had lost that trust long ago.

“Yeah…actually, this new kid in my class.” You smile and look at the front mirror, meeting her eyes.

“Oh really?” She looked relieved, like a burden lifted from her shoulder, making your heart hurt. Did she dislike the idea of Sukuna that much?

“Yeah, mom. He’s cute.”

The real question came, the one in her mind the entire time. “What type of hybrid is he?”

“Hah! A herbivore, mom, what else? Never been attracted to anything else.”

Lie after lie after lie.

Did you feel guilty?

Partly.

Sure, they were your parents, but you knew that if they knew what you and Sukuna were now, they wouldn’t be supportive.

After two months of talking about a fake crush nonstop, they finally were convinced that Sukuna is, and always was, your best friend.

And they allowed you to spend time with him.

What they didn’t have to know was that the supposed hang out at the mall with many friends, turned out to be a very romantic date in the forest.

With your now boyfriend.

The memory, and Sukuna's question about your parents accepting him as no longer your friend, makes you frown. “Maybe not.”

“Thought so.” He clicks his tongue. “Can already imagine the lecture.”

You smile in return, eyes dropping to his lips as he mocks your parents' voice. “Stay away from that disruptive boy! He’s bad news!” His shoulders loosen at your giggle.

“What were you thinking? If you were around a handsome, mannered buck instead, this would have never happened.” He tries to mimic the same tone, but fails when a buck is mentioned, a low rumble escaping him.

Sukuna snarls and slacks his lips like the words taste like shit.

Your eyes soften and in an attempt to lift his mood, you copy his tone, “And I’ll cry and yell, ‘but daddy, I love him!’”

It’s the first time you admit you love him out-loud.

Love him romantically at least. You knew you loved him years ago.

𓃴⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆𓃮

Children run out of the classroom, laughing and already swarming the playground.

A group gathers around, and a boy is discussing the rules of the game. “See! But that’s cheating, okay? You have to…”

The voice fades when you feel the presence of someone else. Your head turns all the way around, and you spot it– someone is lonely. A boy is crouching, holding a stick and tracing it on the sand beneath him.

Your first response is to invite him, of course. And that is exactly what you plan on doing.

“Where are you going?” Your sheep hybrid friend pulls your arm when you nudge away.

“He’s lonely.” You reply, looking back at the boy. “He can play with us!” A huge smile appears at the thought.

Your friend thinks otherwise.

Her head tilts, and her soft, white ears perk up in fear when she spots him. “No! My mommy said to stay away.” She whispers lowly.

A frown curls on your lips, and hesitation bubbles up. “Why?”

“He’s dangerous. Look,” Her hand points at his pink ears and long tail with stripes. “– a tiger.”

Your eyes squint like you're trying to make sense of the situation. “So?”

“He can hurt us!” She hisses like it’s the obvious answer.

But it still doesn't make sense to you. Your parents always taught you to be kind, despite being a herbivore or carnivore hybrid. “He won’t…I’m going,” and you pull free from her grip, walking to the lonely boy.

“Stop!” She whines, but stays put, looking nervously at the group chatting and now running around to play the game.

Sukuna huffs, drawing on the sand, oblivious that his future everything was behind him.

The others were afraid of him. He knew. The way they scrabbled when he passed by to grab crayons or a pencil from a cubby. Or when the teacher scolded him for carrying the scissors incorrectly, despite the others doing the same thing. It was fine, though. He didn't care.

He likes being alone. He didn't have to deal with annoying and endless talking. That is, until you entered his life.

“Hi!” A high-pitched voice suddenly squeals beside him.

Sukuna’s tail spikes up at the loud noise, making him stumble and fall back.

“Oh- sorry! I didn't want to scare you.” You scramble and reach your hand up to help him get up.

“Nothing scares me.” His eyes narrow when he gets a good look at you. Deer hybrid, delicate and weak, always tripping over your own feet. He scoffs, getting up by himself. “What do you want?”

When he fully stands up and dusts himself, he realizes you're slightly taller than him. It makes his ears flatten against his head.

“Want to play with us?” Your smile is huge, short tail wagging in excitement.

“No.” Sukuna immediately answers. He’ll probably get called out on ‘playing to roughly’ with the others.

Your tail pauses for a moment before it wags again. “Okay! Can I draw with you?”

“Why?” He scoffs again, looking more confused than grumpy.

“Because I wanna.” There's a happy beam from you that makes his eyes squint.

A minute passes before he shrugs. “Kay.” As long as you're quiet and stay a few feet away, he doesn't see the issue.

He crouches down again and grabs his stick- before a shoulder bumps into his, invading his personal space, and immediately talking.

“Can I borrow the stick next– wait, what did you draw? Look funny– wait, what’s your name, again?”

𓃴⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆𓃮

The words ‘love’ makes his head lift from your lap. A soft purr comes from Sukuna, satisfied, his large hands lightly squeezing your thighs.

“Hm, you’ll be grounded for eternity, young lady.” He flicks your knee, in response, your leg flick and almost kicks his face. But he holds your foot.

“For what? Telling the truth?”

Sukuna chuckles, placing your foot back on the ground. “Suppose so.”

Your chest feels warm and tight. Instead of staring at him with goo-hoo eyes, you look back at the apple in your hands and bring it to your face and bite into it.

It’s sweet, juicy, the juices running down your chin, and your tongue swipes over your bottom lip to lick it off.

Excited with your new discovery, your head turns to Sukuna to tell him about it, but no need to grab his attention, because he’s already looking at you, red eyes tracing your lips.

“It’s really good.” You mutter while chewing on chunks.

In content and enjoying the taste, your feet sway back and forth and your short tail wagging happily.

“Hm, have some.” Your hand practically pushes the apple in his face, a huge smile plastered on your face.

Sukuna pushes it away from him. “Tch- no, it’s just an apple, they all taste the goddamn same.”

Your ears droop a little before perking up again.

“Promise– this one tastes different!”

He sighs, scratching the back off his neck like he has to do this and not choosing to please his girlfriend.

He gives in and leans to take a bite of the apple with a loud crunch.

“Good?” Your tail wags faster.

Sukuna raises a brow, continuing chewing before swallowing. “Like I said, nothing special ‘bout it”

“Take another bite.” You huff stubbornly.

“What, no—”

“Take. Another. Bite.”

He clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes.

Fuck.

You had him so fucked up.

If this were any other girl, well, he would’ve refused and walked away.

But it's you, so instead of arguing he gives in.

Again.

Sukuna grumbles, lifting his head to take another bite. Except he doesn't. He pushes the fruit that he could give two shit about, out of his way and lunges at you instead.

His hand holds your jaw, and he takes his mouth on yours, tasting the lingering apple flavor on your lips. After a minute, he finally pulls away, leaving you dizzy.

“You're right– it’s sweeter.” Those rare, lazy smirks appear before he nudges your chin with his knuckle. Your cheeks flush, and you turn your head away from him.

“I didn't mean–that’s not what…” You're hazy from the kiss, too flustered to face him. But Sukuna finds it the perfect time to keep pushing.

“No? Mind giving me another taste,” Sukuna chuckles, leaning into your hair.

“Ryo– stop it!” You squeal and sway his face.

“C’mon, thought you wanted to prove it was ‘the best apple you ever had.’”

…

You had him acting like a puppy on a leash.

That’s what dumb, fucking, idiotic puppy love does.

It twists your mind and heart, making you think that type of love will last.

But it doesn't.

It really doesn't.

Four years later.

“Sukuna.” Your voice pulls him into the present. He blinks and looks over at you.

You’ve grown more confident in your skin.

College has changed both of you.

You were still friendly and kind, with floppy ears that exposed your every feeling.

“The homework for yesterday’s class.” Your hand reaches for his, fisting it open and stacking the papers there so he can feel the sheer weight of what he missed.

“Fuck, this is all from one day?” Sukuna huffs, looking at the thick stack. He had a lot of catching up to do.

“Come next time, maybe you wouldn’t have to do so much.” Your grin almost makes him grin back, but he lifts the stack of papers, dreading the work he’ll need to catch up on.

“Yeah, yeah.” He responds with an eye roll.

Your lips curl into a warm, soft smile. You’ve never changed.

“Kay, I’ll see you later to study?” You slowly start walking away from him, waving goodbye.

“Maybe, I have shit to do.” Sukuna shrugs as he watches your back facing him, walking further away.

You’re happily strolling, probably heading to your next class of the day.

And out of the blue, a buck hybrid nearby wraps his arm around your waist and steals a kiss.

Your laugh rings in his ears, and your boyfriend follows, handing you a coffee as a surprise.

Sukuna exhales, shoving the papers into his backpack before moving.

Yeah.

You’re still you. Warm, compassionate, caring, and cheerful, as he’s always known you. Your heart just belonged to someone else.

…

“Hey.” Sukuna sighs, a lion hybrid taking his backpack.

You’re no longer his. That’s fine.

And him?

His girlfriend kisses his cheek, talking about her day.

Yeah, no— he’s yours. Always will be.

A/N: Shoutout to Jeff Buckley, this whole series was inspired when I was listening to 'Lover You Should've come over' on repeat. mistakes are likely, I’ll fix them by tommor, just wanted this posted :) This will be a series! (Let’s go! second series XP) I’ll be working on this as well as my piece, “Catch a Tiger by its tail.” Art credit: hunnismoker on insta

[v3is]

IRON HAND IN VELVET GLOVE 𓇢𓆸

SYNOPSIS   𓏲𝄢 Being a blind girl in a bustling village is not easy— especially when nobody was willing to be of help. You've heard stories about a curse frequently roaming around the outskirts of town. A folklore passed down from generations to generations of family inside the village, though nobody has seen this "curse" in person before, the stories were still told like it first surfaced. However, the night when the said curse finally emerged from the thick trees and vaporized the village, you were left behind to fend on your own.

PAIRING   ✶  trueform! sukuna x blind! reader

CONTENT   ✶  sukuna is a dick, what's new . uraume is also . . . mean here, but they will change . no smut . long oneshot . ik it is said that sukuna doesn't have concubines nor sexual partners, but there will be mentions of concubines in this fic . uraume cameo . ik sukuna probably doesn't eat human food too but it's said here that he does (begrudgingly) . reader gets hurt a lot (minor wounds like a cut or scratch) . mentions of blood . mentions of sex . derogatory terms for women . sukuna gets soft but denies it . a little angst if u realize . fluff ending (gosh im not one for angst rn)

NOTE   ✶  divider creds to @/mieluno . it's been so long since i posted here omg. my first draft is almost done, surprisingly. saw how my blind! reader and trueform sukuna fic previously got so much love, i thought why not make another one. probably gonna dip again after this for a bit, then come back again. also, thank you so much for 4k while i was gone, i appreciate it so much. and i hope you guys like this one mwhehe :>

"My mother told me the curse arrives every decade to choose a woman of his choice," this is stupid, you thought.

Your ears twitched lightly at the gossip— the folklore has been around for many decades and it was still spread around like wildfire. Frankly speaking, you didn't think it was right, just something made by worried parents to get their kids tucked safely behind doors on time as the sun falls under the horizon.

For many years, you've heard people speak of the same curse around; but never did the curse showed itself to anyone also over the years, you've heard many different things about the curse:

One, it was said that the "curse" comes by every decade to choose a woman of his choice to be a concubine, or even worse, a wife. However, none of the women here has been chosen by him, nor did the curse ever did come by.

Two, it was said that the curse marries a woman, make her conceive a child, then eats her. Which . . . makes absolutely zero sense at all to you, do curses even engage in . . . bodily intercourse at all?

Three, it was said that when the curse comes, he chooses, and vaporizes the others, and leave. Which also . . . makes absolutely zero sense!

Clearly this was something made by people who felt like it was fun to be passed down for generations. You were born with no vision, so the wonders of the world are all held back in blotches of black, it wasn't the most handy in this life where you do labor for everything.

"Do you think he has disgusting features . . ? Maybe two heads . . . Oh, or four legs, like a deer. Maybe he's a deer curse since he ventures the forest," you wanted to chuckle hearing them speak— it has always been them, you had no sense of time which was pretty horrible in a way you'd need someone to actually remind you it's night while you were out.

And by "someone" it's the owl hooting and hollering loudly, announcing the beginning of its hunt. Along with the crickets by the evening. Oh, don't forget the sounds of doors clicking harshly into their locks or the windows slamming shut in fear that the "curse" would get them.

You have felt intense fear in life. For example, recalling back to the time you'd lost footing in a stream and had the ladies there help you from drowning only to receive a lecture on how you should be more careful. Second, this was pure hypocrisy, however when you tend to stay out after dark, the rustling that comes behind trees and snaps of branches sent shivers down your spine.

Because as much as you try to deny the possibility of the curse roaming around the outskirts of the village, somewhere deep inside you, a little part couldn't help but to indulge into the folklore like these people.

Your eyelids slammed open, the drumming in your heart was getting louder and louder. This wasn't a dream, you were sure of it. So, why the hell were people screaming and hollering outside? Your fingertips grazed over the wooden desk as you guided yourself out of bed, heart racing and the impending doom bubbling right under your chest— people don't scream like this unless something was happening.

Was there another break in? Or were the Shakkin-tori back? They weren't supposed to be back until next year (or so you heard).

Your fingers curled on the door handle and you twisted it slowly, the lock clicking under your command. The air outside felt humid— no, hot even. It felt like the sun had decided to come a little bit closer.

And it smells . . . Awful. Utterly, awful. It smells like charcoal. Were the kids burning wood again? The second your foot stepped out, you were on the ground. Someone had sped past you frantically, screaming bloody murder, and hence, you decided that this wasn't just Shakkin-tori nor a normal forest bandit visit— this was actually real. And you weren't sure what to make do of the lack of information.

"Hello—" Your voice was futile, drowned under the crackles of wood and the mix of agony wafting around.

Your head turned frantically, hoping for anyone, anyone to just notice you this one time. But to no avail, nobody came to your aid as they were also busy with themselves. Families running, clutching onto their little ones as they fled the village only to be a cluttered, lifeless mess the second they try to escape any further.

The smell of metal whiffed into your nostrils, it doesn’t take two and two to conclude that it was blood that you were currently smelling. Especially with this whole fiesta, you’d think blood might have been the first thing you could smell instead of burning wood.

You could make out kids crying beneath all the terrified screams and crackles of burning wood growing louder. It was bound to happen to your safe haven so you stopped yourself from getting back inside— navigating your way outside all based on pure memories and instinct. Your movements were ran by adrenaline at this point, and you disregard the bumping made to the corner of your shoulders, refusing to let it push you down this time.

“Anyone?” You call out, your fingers grasping the air, quietly hoping for someone’s hand to hold yours and bring you to safety.

But nothing came. And you were left to be alone, walking down with your arms stretched out, you felt like a fool.

You stumbled over the hem of your kimono slightly and cursed under your breath, using one hand to grip the fabric and pulling it up slightly so you could step better. However, the lack of stretched arms to navigate your way only allowed you to crash into a wall— no, it sure felt like a wall, but you aren’t stupid enough to know that walls don’t make noises.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out meek and careful, a bit relieved that this was someone you could ask for help from, “What is happening? Hello?”

“Uraume.”

Who is Uraume? You don’t recognize that name anywhere and you surely don’t recognize anyone with that name inside the village. You staggered back, they must be the perpetrators. You turned on your heels and tried to rush away, only for a force to tug you back by your forearm.

“My Lord?”

“Seize her.”

Seize? You try to pull your arm away— keyword: try. When it failed under the touch of the person named “Uraume”, you reason out, “I’m afraid I do not understand what that means, what is happening right now?”

“My Lord, she lacks the knowledge of seizing. She is quite unlettered,” your jaw dropped in offense at the words strewn about you, “shall I discard her away and search for a different woman for you—?”

“I am not unlettered! Forgive me for lacking the vision to see what is revolving around me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

“Seize her. Drag her back to the shrine.”

“Ow,” you wince out, your hair pulled back roughly.

“Hold still,” you didn’t dare move at the annoyance lacing in her tone— you still have yet to know what was happening and who “Uraume” and “My Lord” is.

They had dragged you here without much fight from you. As much as you tried to stop them, their touch roughly screamed out strong and you weren’t brave enough to fight back. Not currently, to keep it short, “Uraume” had commanded a woman to hurl you into a quick bath so you’d look presentable.

“Why have they decided to bring in a blind girl? This is so troublesome,” she spat out, despite that, her fingers worked inside your hair, scrubbing it roughly, pulling the strands back.

Your wince and hisses of pain had gone unbothered by her. And you’d assume she worked under “Uraume” and “My Lord”. By her complaints, she’d rather be doing something else rather than bathing you. Mind you, you had the ability to clean yourself without help!

Don’t even start with the drying. She had used a rough fabric you couldn’t make out, it prickled your skin like needles; you try not to rip the fabric out of her grasp to do it yourself, but the curses she spat under her breath made you endure it. She had dressed you in a kimono, you assumed. The process equaled to the one you do everyday.

Although she had pulled the obijime tighter than how you do it, deliberately cutting the air slightly that you struggled to walk.

She pulled you along. No, she dragged you along her side and you complied. Before then, you’d stumble over wooden stairs she doesn’t inform you of until the sound the traditional shoji door sliding made you shudder. Once the door opened, the aura from the other side made your body felt lightweight.

The woman, you assumed, dragged you inside the room. Her hand lands on the top of your head, pushing it down. Your forehead kissed the rough tatami mat harshly at the force, and she murmurs under her breath; all hostility from before dissipating into one of fear and caution, “My Lord, she has been cleaned up like you assigned.”

“You may leave.”

Her hand disappeared from the top of your head and the footsteps fled, you internally screamed for her to bring you along. But, she doesn’t. The shoji door slid shut and you were left inside the room, on your knees. Slowly you brought your head back up from the mat, palms growing clammy at the silence.

“What is happening—?” Your question doesn’t vary from when they had found you roaming around like headless chicken.

“Silence. You are as of to shut your mouth when not given the permission,” someone solicited.

Again. You were offended. Surely they could have said it in a nicer manner, you fisted your hands on top of your lap. First, they had dragged you here. Second, made you shower with a woman who clearly doesn’t want to do it. Third, tell you to shut it when you needed closure.

“I have been stolen against my will,” you told in a matter of fact tone.

“Kidnap, I believe is the right term.”

“Yes. This is a crime. A felony. You will be severely punished for this,” you mutter under your breath, furrowing your brows, “they will put your head up on spikes and present it to the whole village!”

“Surely they wouldn’t go against someone who had vaporized your village,” you gasped in surprise, “and I made sure to leave the adults choked on their own blood. Who will have whose heads on spikes? I’d say not the adults.”

“I can’t tell if your naivety is laughable or pathetic,” the new voice, deeper, and hoarse made your head cast down slowly, “why so scared now? Where has that courage gone off to?”

The words were blown out of your mind. Whoever this was right in front of you smells of great danger and you weren't ready to deal with this until you've gotten your way around. A low chuckle escaped his lips at the sight of you so meek, "Uraume, show her the chambers."

Chambers? Your head snapped up, "Chambers? I will be detained?"

"Sleeping chambers," Uraume clarify.

You felt Uraume brush against you as they walked, you stood up slowly, trying to follow their footsteps; only to plant your face into the shoji door. A heads up would have been wonderful, you mumbled to yourself internally. Uraume kept his silence, watching you struggle with the fact that the Shoji door was on your way— they pushed the door wider for you to step out, and you did. our foot caught onto the sill of the door and your body jolted forwards slightly.

You would think that Uraume at least had the basic decency to guide you to follow them, but they had took a few steps ahead. No worries, you'd rely on your hearing for so long that you have grown accustomed to this kind of behavior. Your fingers laced against each other, following their steps and making sure that you hadn't lost them along the way.

"When you address him by 'My Lord', what is he? King of the forest? Head of village? Owner of a shrine?" You questioned in confusion, "And who was that lady? She could have been nicer to my hair."

"We do not do nice here. Be glad that My Lord has decided to spare your measly life unlike the adults there . . ." Uraume muttered back, turning around the corner.

Which you didn't hear. Hence, the loud 'thud' your body made as you fell off the end of the engawa, unknown about the sharp corner. Your palm dug onto the ground, little pebbles irritated the surface of your skin, digging into your flesh. A loud hiss escaped your lips at the sting and Uraume's footsteps close in, "This is quite troublesome."

"It would not have been if you had told me about that corner, Waraume."

"Uraume," they corrected.

"Uraume," you fixed.

They didn't help you up. You kept yourself stranded on the ground, one of the zori sandals you wore came off when you took a tumble and you had no idea where it had landed. After seconds, you brushed your palms onto the fabric of the kimono, tapping the ground to find the missing piece of footwear. This is humiliating.

When your fingertips grazed over it, you cheered internally, placing it upright. Uraume grunted, "Be quick, I do not have all the time in this world to wait for your tardiness."

"Tardiness? I am not being tardy. I need help, and nobody is willing to give me the help I needed," you grumbled under your breath, putting the sandal back on begrudgingly.

Uraume shuffled back onto the engawa, letting you climb back on yourself. This time, you try to keep quiet and put all ears up to listen to their footsteps, and you did. Horribly.

Uraume stopped right in front of a shoji door. Their fingers gripped onto the back of your obi, pulling you into a halt. They slid the door open widely this time, "This is where you will reside. You are to consume three meals a day —breakfast, lunch, and dinner— in the Ooku with the other concubines. They can be . . . distasteful, so keep your mouth shut at all times."

You stood there, "Ooku? Concubines? Surely your Lord wouldn't want a blind concubine, no?"

"He has not said anything about you being a concubine, a command is a command."

Uraume ushered you inside the chamber, "But I do not know when breakfast, lunch, or dinner is," your voice was timid, but Uraume isn't there anymore— They had walked away the moment you stepped inside the chamber, with your arms stretched out, you try to find your way around the room. It was spacious, maybe even bigger than your house in the village.

There is the cabinet. A dresser. A few tokonoma hung on the walls. An ikebana vase rested on the cabinet gingerly, and you hummed. Your fingers touched a circular handle and you slid it open— the oshiire, this was where the fluffy futon was tucked inside. And you touched the soft cotton based bedding, this was better than the thin mattress you used back at home.

Walking around the room, your shin bumped onto a small desk by the corner, a loud groan escaped in between your lips and you rubbed the area in the middle of your leg, "Who puts a table in the corner?" What a poor planning.

Like the usual, you only recognized it is nightfall by the time an owl began hooting right outside your chamber. The gargling in your stomach made you huddle down in pain, when was dinner? Right as you began laying down on the tatami, the door slid open.

"You are late for dinner."

"I don't know what is night. Or day. Or time at all. For one, the owls have been my night radar for . . . ever now," you muttered out, clutching on your stomach, "and I have no sense of direction. I do not know where the Ooku lays beneath all these walls and engawa. Nor do I know where the engawa ends," the reminder of the fall you took earlier made you grow annoyed.

Uraume blow out a soft sigh, they walked inside and lit the lantern by the corner of the room, "My Lord is requesting for your presence. The other concubines are not allowed to eat unless your presence is there."

"Is he supposed to eat with the concubines?"

" . . . Not usually," Uraume grappled onto your bicep, tugging you up, "it is an exception just for today."

"Why isn't he dining with his empress—"

"My Lord has no empress."

"Consorts?"

"No."

The walk to the Ooku is quiet. Uraume walked with purpose, often stopping to make sure you hadn't fall off the engawa like earlier— every time you fall back, Uraume stepped their foot once to notify his presence. You followed them down. And when the two of you reached the Ooku, Uraume took a good look at you.

"Make yourself look presentable."

"Do I not look presentable?"

"You look a mess."

"I am still presentable, am I not here to dine? I have no wants to woo your Lord," you smooth down the fabric of your kimono, puckering your lips slightly at how harsh their words are, "I am starving. I hope you served deer meat."

"Fish."

"Fish is delicious as well."

Uraume pulled the shoji door open, and the smell of food immediately caressed your nostrils. The smell made your stomach gargle even more, but you don't dare step inside— not when the whispers of the concubines made your stomach drop in a way not even the dread from the village did. You swallowed the lump in your throat, waiting for Uraume's next command.

"Step inside."

"Where?" Your whisper made Uraume grunt, they slowly grip the corner of your fingers, dragging you along the room. The tatami mat seemed to dig under your foot more as you walked. Before you could process it, they had helped you sit on the fluffy zabuton, right behind the table full of plates and bowls.

Sukuna's eyes watched you cautiously. He kept his mouth sealed, eyeing the way you sat on your knees on top of the zabuton, tucked to the right where a high ranked concubine should have been sitting. Instead, he had requested for you today. And his request was accepted in begrudging acceptance from the concubines.

Inside the Ooku, you sat there awkwardly. The whispers continue and you grumbled under your breath, you just wanted to dine in peace. A low voice came from your left side, "Eat."

The same voice you heard before. 'My Lord', you mumbled inside your mind. Bowls clanked, and you look around, tapping the table in search of your utensils. This was already humiliating as it is, but the fact that all these people have to wait for you to finish eating before being able to leave was even more humiliating— you end up discarding a lot of food just to make it all stop.

Uraume guided you back to your chambers under Sukuna's command.

You guessed a month passed by in a whim. You kept track of it, every single time the owls made their noise, you try to carve the walls of the chambers with a piece of sharp wood. The deep carve helped you counted the days you have been sitting here inside the chambers. It was ridiculous— the days passed by and every single thing in a day was always the same. Wake up, try to fold the futon, shove it back inside the oshiire as much as it could fit, shut the door and hope it doesn't bust, wait for Uraume to bring you to the Ooku for breakfast, bathe, dilly-dally, lunch, more dilly-dallying, dinner, bathe, bed.

"Dinner is served."

The walk to the Ooku was no longer awkward, you had accepted the fact that this will be your life from now on. 'My Lord'— or Sukuna Ryomen, you heard has made no attempt to talk to you at all, and you were glad. He was clearly occupied with the higher rank concubines, or that's what you assumed.

Exception for tonight, Uraume said. And Sukuna had been dining in the Ooku since you arrived here. Also, that explains why these ladies haven't been the nicest to you. By all means. Bath time was the worst, you wouldn't be surprised when one of your kimono pieces go missing, or your sandals, your socks. Even the soap. Or the wooden bucket you use frequently for water.

The constant bumps on your shoulder when you walked by the engawa, or the way you constantly trip on someone's foot as you walked by. They were doing a pretty damn good job at making you feel like chopped liver, not that you feel at home here anyways. You had no plan to get them to stop, nor do you want to be involved with the higher ranked concubines.

"Eat," Sukuna muttered like the usual.

Your fingers grasped the wooden chopsticks. You weren't a food connoisseur, but the cooks seemed to be in a mood to get married today— the salt made your throat ache, but you swallowed it nonetheless. At least the rice was delicious and it killed the over salty . . . everything.

"Uraume."

Every movement inside the dining hall collapsed. The silence is deafening and your movements stopped along with the others when Sukuna suddenly piqued out for Uraume, "Yes, My Lord?"

"Call the dokumiyaku."

The woman to your right speaks up, "Is there a problem with the food, My Lord?" her soft voice was wonderful— one of the kind you'd expect from a noble woman, although it would have been nice if her attitude matches the softness of her voice, "I'd say it tastes quite exquisite today."

Uraume went off and hoisted a dokumiyaku into the Ooku; you sat there, ready to shove your face inside the food, but your chopsticks were stolen right from your grasp at the last second, "I had not command you to eat, did I?" Sukuna's voice glowered.

You couldn't see his expression, but you stayed quiet. Sukuna faced the poison taster standing in fear right by the shoji, and he spoke out, "Taste this woman's food," he commanded.

And by woman, he meant yours. Everyone's eyes panned towards your platter of food. The only thing about this was somehow you were the only one unknown of all this, but you waited. You felt a presence right to your side and you scoot away in response.

"My Lord, there seems to be no problem with anything . . . Though," and then it hits you that the man was trying your food, your food. Sukuna had called a poison taster for your food for whatever reason he believed, "it is quite salty. A little more than . . . usual, and too much salt can cause complications to the body—"

"Hence, it is poison?"

" . . . If digested too much, yes."

"Uraume, discard the platter."

"My food," you mumbled, "surely I will be getting another platter, right?"

Sukuna grunts. He took a look at Uraume, gesturing to his platter as a hint to hand it to you, Sukuna hates human food anyways. Uraume complied, moving the platter onto your table. The concubines brows furrowed at the sight of his generosity— this was the first time Sukuna had done something as humane as this. The jealousy that had been brewing inside their heart boiled even more at the sight, the silence was there, but their hearts were noisy; sending knowing glances at each other as if to make sure every single one of them inside that room saw what just happened.

After Sukuna's command to continue eating, everyone continued. You chowed down the better tasting food and finished everything. How come he had notice something was wrong? Were your expressions saying too much?

Deespite that, you were thankful enough to finish the platter. Also, why does he have a poison taster? Aren’t curses immune to them?

A few months passed by slow, the concubines were being miserable. Especially the higher ranked ones, you would have thought mentions of them being pure evil were just myths— but they were right. You had been miserable all these months.

It started off small like a few months ago. Bath time problems. Missing clothing. Then it escalates to tampered foods, light framing. For example, last month, you had gotten framed for breaking one of the concubine's priced jewelry she custom made from one of the rarest gem in all of Japan. You took the judgement like a rock, with pointed fingers at you, you don't bother at all. Sukuna dismissed the problem, he doesn't sound like he cared enough to be bothered by a broken gem.

Or the other time another high ranked concubine told Sukuna about you somehow being a spy sent by your village to put an end to him. Sukuna blatantly shut down the ridiculous statement by saying he had killed every single person in that village and the said concubine was sent to the chamber . . . not for sleeping ones.

Sukuna doesn’t bother with measly troubles as this. Perhaps it’s the fact he was bounded to these women with lust— he has no problem throwing them away when they get too troublesome. Although, he did have to admit, you had done nothing but be troublesome for him.

Yet, you piqued his interest to the brim. Perhaps it is also the fact that you couldn’t see him that you were not spewing out words of disbelief. Most of his concubines fear him, they feared death. But you? You act like this was another trip around the village and lived life to the fullest.

He loathes dining in the Ooku, the concubines there —most of them— acted insufferable. The tone of their voice differ from the way they spoke to people of lower ranks. Now, Sukuna doesn’t bother with how they acted to the shrine maids or the workers, though his ears twitched every time he overhears them talking about you like you were just a hindrance to them.

The first time Sukuna laid his eyes upon your figure, he had been itching to kill you. To just slice you open and watch the crimson paint the ground like he did to every other people in the village that night, it took him by surprise that he had even commanded Uraume to bring you here.

These concubines were chosen by him, personally. Either that or . . . They had rightfully given themselves by their own want. Sukuna fixed his black hakama as he sat down inside his chambers, the darkness consumed him; and the only light were from the lanterns Uraume had forced inside the room.

“Uraume.”

“Have the concubines been giving that woman a hard time?” Sukuna questioned, shutting his eyes, “They will stop at nothing to get rid of that woman from the shrine.”

“Seems like the concubines are a bit . . . Envious.”

“Envy?” Sukuna questioned in amusement, he stared up the ceiling of his chambers, “Of what?”

“You seem to be favoring her.”

“That blind wench? Favoring? I’m just merely toying with her.” He scoffed.

“Mm.”

Sukuna grunted, “There will be time when I get rid of her— she’s utterly irrelevant and useless.”

Uraume hums softly, “She has no manners, no class, is never on time, takes long baths, mismtaches her outfits often, unable to take care of her looks, and is just . . . Terrible to look after. She is quite troublesome, I’d appreciate if you do get rid of that woman,” they finished in annoyance, “she go on about falling off the engawa and blamed it on me. How rude.”

“She lacks the vision.”

“And common sense.”

Sukuna leaned his chin onto one of his knuckles, his thought reeled back to the way you seemed to be all smiles despite the wrong-doings of the other concubines. He was right, you put no mind into the stuff that revolved around you right now and lived life like you always do— clearly, it shows how much you had been through to be able to accept these kinds of doings with open heart.

Uraume grumbled under their breath, “She lacks the knowledge of time. She lacks the knowledge of etiquette. She is quite the messy eater that even the maids get tired of scrubbing her outfits, it is about time that you get rid of her, My Lord.”

“It will come.”

A sliver of smile appeared on Uraume’s lips and they bowed their head down, “I will be waiting.”

You held back a light sneeze, idle on the futon. Your sleepwear tangled lightly, wondering how you were supposed to be sleeping in such complex materials— you thought of discarding them and sleep with just your skin on, but it would be shameful for Uraume to see first thing in the morning if you hadn’t wake up.

Your eyes were wide open, blinking. The darkness that covered your vision felt suffocating, and you breathe in softly and let the air back out loudly. Your back ached as the rough tatami dug into the futon. Today had been a bad day, you had managed to fall off the engawa once more when one of the concubines, you assume, had tripped you while you walked by.

Two, you spilled your grilled fish and didn’t get another one as change. You tried to complain to anyone. And three, someone had taken your obijime during bath time and you had nothing to hold your obi up. So, you walked towards your chambers holding up the piece of clothing your limbs turning into a makeshift obijime.

This was childish, you thought.

You stood up, the kosode faltering a bit and the oversized hakama Uraume gave to you were annoying. Not only were they too big, they had refused to change anything to fit you.

You slowly slid out of the room, tapping on the walls to navigate your way out. In all honesty, you were not supposed to be roaming out after dark. Uraume frequently goes on to check, but they stop after a certain amount of time— you walked down the hall, finding your way turning corners after corners trying to remember the directions to the garden you came across while exploring alone the other month.

“Running away so soon?”

You stumbled over your foot at the sudden voice and fell face first onto the wooden engawa, the pain registering seconds later into your nose and forehead. A hiss escaped your lips as you scoot aside, sitting on your knees, “Who is speaking?”

“Your Lord.”

“Sukuna?” You confirmed.

The no answer was an answer and you sighed, “How may I be as of help, My Lord?” You murmured out, rubbing the tip of your nose.

“You? Think I need help?”

“You might, which is why I am asking,” an amused scoff went past your lips and he raised a brow at your words, nobody dared to say that to him. Not even Uraume, “I was . . . Heading to the restroom.”

“Wrong direction.”

You freeze. He owned this place, of course he knew everything, a nervous laugh rumbled from the deepest part of your body, “Oh, it seems like I have made a mistake. Please, excuse me then, My Lord.”

He drawls out again, “You are quite the bad liar, wench.”

You retaliate, “Excuse me?” Had he just insulted you? Wench? Oh my goodness, if he weren’t so powerful, you would have your fist all the way up his bottom that it shows up when he opens his mouth! “Do not address me as such. I am not a wench.”

He scoffed, “You’re pitiful.”

“I am not.”

“All smiles under peer pressure, my concubines are giving you a hard time, are they not?” He hummed in amusement, adjusting his black colored kosode hanging by his broad shoulders, “I do not know whether you are being brave or foolish. You are a mere toy for me to enjoy, and until that enjoyment ends, I am to keep you alive and breathing.”

“And once it ends?”

“You will be discarded like every other person,” he spoke with such ease that it made vomit pile in your throat, you were kept here for the sake of his amusement while you were trying to stay alive, “nobody would choose a blind wench, not even humans. You would serve as nothing but a toy to anyone out there, surely you’d be appreciative of the royalty I give you?”

You gasped in horrid, “Appreciative? Over this?! You are insufferable, and terrible. Yes, you are terrible and disgusting.”

He barks out a rancid laugh, “That so?”

“Disgusting!”

You lift your hakama to prevent tripping and walked forwards only to step over . . . Nothing. And the tumble sent you face first into the ground below. Damn that engawa!

“Fool.”

Sukuna’s heavy footsteps began echoing as he walked around the corner, leaving you to complain on your own, blaming the hakama over your fall. The soil stuck beneath your nails as you pushed yourself up, holding the hakama in embarrassment. All that talk and you fall after, shame!

You stood there. The tremble in your legs stood you up there for a moment, graveling in your own shame. After a moment, you found yourself climbing back up onto the engawa, sauntering down the hall in continue to find the garden you accidentally came across some time ago.

Unlike the other concubines, you don’t care about that fiend. Fiend is the right word, he is now a fiend since you are a wench to him. How dare he degrade you like that? Even if nobody was there to witness it— still, how terrible of him. Maybe the folklore was right, maybe he is as terrible.

Ugh. You stomp your foot down on the engawa in annoyance. Not only did he manage to foul your already foul mood, you also did not find the garden even after an hour of roaming around endless corners, slowly lowering yourself onto grounds just to pat over the ground seeking for the familiar feeling of the bushes you touched and seeking for the slick rock that stopped you from toppling over the small pond.

You end up tangled under the blankets of your futon, angrily tugging on the warm sheet like your life depends on it. No, actually, you were channeling your anger towards Sukuna to the poor thing, cursing it under your breath as you kicked your legs in annoyance.

Before then, you had fallen asleep in fits of rage. The crease in between your brows deepened in your sleep, Sukuna plaguing your dreams. You woke up early like a fresh bucket of water had dampen you, earlier than usual. You slip out of your room with a towel and a change of kimono the maids had packed in sets so you wouldn’t mix the colors up— a warm bath without any of the concubines up felt like a breath of fresh air, you tied the obijime just right.

No missing sandals. No mismatched socks. You walked back to your chambers, tidying up the futon and shoving it into the oshiire as much as it could fit in. A low rumble of hunger reverberated and you held your tummy, sitting on your knees, waiting for Uraume to come fetch you.

And when they did, they were fairly surprised to see you up and dressed well. You feel their fingers curl around yours, pulling you out of the chambers. You trudged alongside them, entering the Ooku proudly. Chest puffed up, like you hadn’t been loudly cursing the pink haired curse into the sheets of your futon.

Sukuna’s many eyes panned to you, scoffing under his breath when you sat on your usual spot. Already reaching out for the chopsticks, “Had I given permission for you to eat?”

“I do not need anybody’s permission to eat,” yes, that was great, you thought already poking on the white fluffy rice in an attempt to rile him up.

And you sure did.

His brows deepened, “You dare defy me?”

“I dare!”

His concubines gasp in shock, surely Sukuna wouldn’t let you out of this alive. His maids and servants have died for various reasons— even the little ones, his outfit folded in a wrong way. Death. His room slightly dirty. Death. Caught shit talking him. Death.

Sukuna stared down at you, riled up. All while you were blissfully feeding yourself the warm rice. A delightful moan vibrating inside you, “This is delicious rice.”

Uraume blinked their eyes in surprise before actively trying to stop you. However, Sukuna waves one of his hand towards them, “Leave us.”

Uraume wastes no time ushering out the other concubines— some of them stifling laughter of satisfaction knowing you were in deep trouble after your stunt. They walked out elegantly, bowing down to Sukuna. You were blissfully unaware of the tremble on his shoulders, the way his nostrils fumed at your action.

“You dare shame me in front of my people?”

“In no way am I trying to shame you, I was just simply dining and appreciating how delicious this food is,” his arm swerved, hurling his platter of food aside. The loud crash echoed in the dining hall and you froze.

What the fuck just happened?

Your chopsticks hovered over the pickled radish on the side, the air blown out of you at the noise. Sure you were planning to rile him up, not to this extent though. You couldn’t see but the ominous aura he pushed out of him made you shudder in fear, the pressure on your shoulders added tenfold when his hand lands on your nape.

Oh, no. Is this the moment he crushed your neck and you die? Or is the moment he hurled you like he did to that platter? Or—

“You have the guts for someone who lacks the vision,” he spat out in annoyance, tone deep and brooding, “do you understand the position you are in? Know your place.”

“Respect is earned, if you do not respect me, I will not respect you,” you muttered out through gritted teeth, your chopsticks trembled from how hard you were holding it and you breath in heavily, “you dare address me as a wench, you do not know me.”

“I said, know your place.”

“I refuse.”

His hand clamped tighter on your nape, pulling your head back. You widened your eyes, “You dare—?!”

“Shut your mouth.”

You clamped your lips tightly shut at his command, briefly realizing how overpowerful this man is. You weren’t sure even 100 men could go against him. Sukuna leans in, his lips touching your earlobe, “You dare defy me?”

“ . . . No, My Lord.”

“Know your place.”

You stayed silent because you weren’t sure if you were to agree, you’d be able to keep your mouth shut next time. He’d surely have forgotten about this in a bit, no?

No. He doesn’t forget.

Patience and Sukuna don’t make a great pair, he has no time for patience. If he doesn’t like something, he gets rid of it quickly. Including humans, he has no single care for them. For him, they’re useless.

It was unnerving every time meal time rolled in because he has no idea what kind of stunt you’re planning. The concubines were surprised to see you still standing, they had even prepared tear works and nicely arranged compliments after the news of your death pass by. But, it never came.

Much like you did the other day, you continue to test his short string of patient. Sukuna waved at Uraume to drag you out of the dining hall before he takes a leave to blow his own steam off. Gosh, how can one measly human be so infuriating?

You have continuously succeeded in making him a fool out of himself. It was frustrating, at the same time, Sukuna couldn’t kill you. Not now anyways.

Hence the reason why he had arranged your meal time privately with him from today on. The concubines weren’t elated at the fact that Sukuna has yet again retracted back from eating with them— the reason he came in the first place was to keep his eyes on you anyways. None of the concubines mattered to him.

You were guided into his chambers, “Uraume? Are you sure you are guiding me to the dining hall? The walk today feels longer.”

“Shut it.”

“No. This is a felony.”

“What about everything in here is not?” Uraume snaps, sliding the door open and Sukuna was already inside, one leg up and his hand leaned onto his knee

You were sat next to Sukuna, reaching out for the chopsticks. Once again, that devious smile on your face plays out, “You never cease to annoy your Lord.”

“I do not understand you.”

“You are very stupid that you make animals look smart to me,” Sukuna rumbled, he watched you shove rice into your mouth happily in an attempt to rile him up, “you do understand that from now on you are to dine under my watch and my watch only?”

You froze. And he smiled in satisfaction, “Nobody would be there to assist you.”

A few moments pass by and you suddenly scrambled up, only to be tugged back down, one of his hands clamped onto your wrist, the other onto your ankle. They tugged you back ominously slow into a sitting position, you try to calm yourself in that fleeting second, “Why so scared now? Surely the courage is still left there as when you always shame me in front of the concubines?”

“Fiend!”

He rolled his tongue behind his lips in victory, “What is new?”

“Monster!”

“I have heard worse.”

“Ugly!”

“You are blind,” he deliberately copied a yawn out of people, leaning back to relax himself.

“I don’t need to see to be able to judge that you are ugly!” You point your finger accusingly towards him— no, to the space beside him that Sukuna coaxed himself to look at the space you pointed at slowly. A lopsided grin forming onto his lips, “You are wretched!”

One of his lower eyes shifted towards you, unnerving. And even if you couldn’t see, the shudder strikes you down once more, “Please, kill me now.”

“Careful of your wish, little wench.”

“Do it.”

“I’ll be your guest.”

You waited for the pain to hit, shutting your eyes. But it never did, and you looked around, it was still dark everywhere, of course. Had the action been so quick that you couldn’t decipher the pain before dying? Or had he not done it?

“For someone who dare to defy me, you seem pretty intent on dying, huh?”

How dare he! You narrow your eyes, “You are pulling laughter out of this,” he scoffed at your hypocrisy, he was doing what you were doing, “shut your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Wretched fiend!”

He hums, “I heard you the first time you told me.”

Sukuna wanted to keep you for the fun of it longer, this was amusing.

“Uraume, does Lord Sukuna eat humans for a meal?” You questioned them.

“Yes.”

“ . . . Is blood equivalent to water for him?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“What a disgusting fiend,” Uraume’s head snapped so fast towards your way that they could only let their jaw clench as they guided you down the hall, towards Sukuna’s chambers.

Nothing had change much for the past few months, you continue to pull at his string and he continues getting angry. But he has made no attempts to kill nor to get rid of you, “My Lord,” Uraume greets softly, sliding the door open for you to walk in.

You no longer fear Sukuna. Sure, he was a menace at times, testing your waters of fear. But strangely, you had gotten used to that practical that it doesn’t bother you anymore— he can try all he wants to be scary, it will never work.

“Tell me, are you a virgin?”

You sputter out the rice towards . . . God knows where. Cheeks warming at the sudden question, “What kind of indecent question is that? I suggest you to shut your mouth this instant,” you scolded in embarrassment.

“I have two. Which one?”

Two!? You would have thought that a curse being not so folklore was shocking enough, but he has two mouths. No wonder he eats humans for a living and slurps blood like a vampire, “That’s . . . Odd. In a very displeasing way.”

Sukuna grunt, “I have four arms.”

“Four!? What else? Two heads and nose?”

“Four eyes.”

“What?”

He grumbled, “You are not deaf, no?”

“So you are a monster,” it wouldn’t have been the first time Sukuna has heard the term, he could care less about it, because he himself agreed to it. He is a monster, what is there to be ashamed of?

“That is right,” he boasts out, chest puffed out.

“You sound proud.”

“I am proud.”

“Nobody would be,” you mumbled, wiping your lips with the sleeve of your kimono in a way that made Sukuna groan out, “what are you groaning about?”

“Even I, a monster, have better manners.”

“I don’t care.”

“You are doing terrific at pulling the end of me,” he tells you, watching you eat your food soundly like another walk around the estate. Your eyes shut in delight as you took a bite out of the grilled fish, Uraume serves them everyday but you don’t seem to be bored of it— unlike the concubines who has the time to complain about it every time Sukuna was not around.

Every single one Sukuna has heard. He doesn’t bother to indulge in it.

“Also.”

His ears twitched, already annoyed, “Speak.”

“Why do you have a poison taster?”

“According to the name—” you cut him off immediately.

“I understand what they do, though, I’m curious because are you not immune to poison?” Sukuna blinked, you were right. He is indeed immune to poisons, he has no idea how long that poison taster has been living inside the estate.

All he knew was that he had one. Apparently, Uraume had hired one to look after the concubines, it would be a nuisance to get rid of every single body all at once.

“I leave Uruaume do the estate handling.”

“So,” you conclude, “you are lazy.”

Sukuna raised a brow, your appearance has trained him patience. Something he has not been fond of for as long as he lived, the way your words nonchalantly flow out as you cocked your head to the side, “No. I simply cannot be bothered to do all that, why should I do such things when I can lay back?”

“Lazy and deluded.”

“Virgin.”

You stammer out, “I did not answer that!”

“You are defensive enough to tell me the truth,” he plays your game, “virgin.”

“Stop saying such things!” You slammed the table, letting the dishes clatter against each other in unison, “And why are we speaking of my sexual experience!?”

“Curiosity.”

You angrily asked, “And if I am not a virgin?”

“No man would want a blind significant other, not only are you a burden— you are too deluded to realize you are a burden,” he points out and you got offended at his words because clearly it hits close to home. Once realizing the effect, he smirks, “and no infant would be honored to grow in that wretched womb of yours.”

You clenched your fists. “If I am such burden, then I should leave. Have a good day, My Lord.”

The lack of “terms of endearment” from you made Sukuna wonder, has he finally pulled your strings? He smiled in victory watching you stumble out of his chambers like a chased fugitive, walking away, even leaving the shoji door open widely. How adorable.

You walked down the engawa in annoyance, the indescribable ache in your heart bloomed even more. No infant would be honored to grow in that wretched womb of yours. How could he say that? If he were to talk about your lack of vision, you would have retaliated because it is something you couldn’t change— but to say something so harsh.

It was to be expected from someone like him. Still, it aches.

A few days pass by. You blatantly refused to come out of your chambers, Uraume doesn’t bother, less work for them to do. You sat there facing the doors, you had been doing some thinking. Maybe if you declined meals, Sukuna would eventually get tired and throw you out. Or even better, end it all for you!

Despite the growing hunger, you kept yourself sane. Sitting on the same spot, dressed in the same kimono, not moving an inch. Days go by, you’d go out every once in a while to fetch water and leftovers to feed inside the privacy of your chambers. Sukuna hasn’t said a thing about the lack of your appearance.

Of course he hasn’t. He’s a monster, he cares of no one but himself! What were you expecting, (Name)? For him to come by, drop to his knees, and start apologizing for his wrongs?

He’s a curse for gosh sake.

You crossed your arms over your chest. And you hear the shoji door to your room slide open, you part your lips, speaking the default sentence you have told Uraume for the past few days, “Uraume, I do not want to—”

“I am not Uraume.”

You blinked, “You don’t sound like them.”

His voice trickles calmly, “You don’t wish to dine in my chambers? As you wish. From today on, we will dine right here in your chambers,” your jaw slacks and clenched over and over at the conclusion he made, “any denial?”

“I refuse. This is my chamber.”

“This is my estate.”

“Still!” You complained like a petulant little brat, “I do not wish to dine with a monster. I wish to dine in this humble abode myself.”

“Denied.”

You gasped, “You selfish—”

“Uraume, dinner,” Sukuna commanded boredly with a yawn, waving one of his arms.”

“Uraume, no dinner!”

Anxiety tightens in your body. He had blatantly ignored your request and you felt assaulted, your safe space was getting bombarded by his ruthless tendency! You stood up, “I command you to leave my chambers this instant,” you point your finger out, body taut.

Sukuna glowered, “You dare command your Lord?”

“You are not my Lord.”

Sukuna stepped towards you, his fingers curled against your wrist into a lock. And your facade falters against his touch, this was back to square one in a flesh— when you had anger him for the first time. The heaviness weighing in your throat grew and then you blow into fits of coughs, all the words caught up in a second. Sukuna pushed your wrist away from pointing at him, “You will dine with me, whether you want it or not. I will force feed you like a bird.”

“No.”

“You are confident the second my touch disappear,” he points out, his hand already hovering right above your throat, ready to pounce, “have the courage to say something with my touch.”

“I can too.”

And his fingers curled over your throat, pressing the sides of it tight enough for you to start gasping for air, “Let me go,” you manage to choke out before he lets go of your throat with a low chuckle, “you are sick in the head, Sukuna.”

“My Lord,” he corrects.

You blurt out, “You are no Lord of mine.”

Sukuna again, chuckles at the answer. Never in his years of life have he ever met someone as stubborn as a mule like you— oddly enough, he couldn’t find the heart to slice you open like he does to anybody else. The heart. What an odd thing to say, he doesn’t have a heart at all.

He’s utter crazy. If crazy had a definition written out, you’d see his name as an example. You stood there before sitting down on your knees. Sukuna sat down next to you; awfully close to you, the musky smell of earth clung onto him, and for once, you wondered if he bathes constantly or if it is just how he smells daily.

No men could smell that good with no bath. Right?

“Are you going to feed yourself or do I need to do the feeding for you?” He questioned, too daring. You know everything that comes out of his mouth was practically something he would do, and you somehow tested the waters once more.

“I am not hungry.”

“I can hear your stomach growling from three rooms away.”

“Do you have four ears too?” You annoyedly asked him, keeping your hands glued onto your lap.

Sukuna shuffled slightly on his spot. He notices the devilish crinkle by the corner of your eyes, as you shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, “Do I?” He hums softly. Puckering his lips, Sukuna stared down at you.

The way your feet shifted constantly under your weight, the way your fingers curled and uncurled. Or the way your eyelids flutter slowly, lashes batting against your skin. Your lips pucker and pulled back, waiting for his next move.

Gosh, Sukunq has never felt this annoyed. He’s a curse, he shouldn’t have feelings. For a mortal at that— he wiped his palm over his face, sobering himself up from the plaguing thoughts of you, “Eat or I will force it in you.”

“I said, I am not hungry.”

Your lips part to utter more complaints to him, but before the words could leave the tip of your tongue, Sukuna shoved a piece of radish into your mouth. Your jaw clamped shut, and you began crunching on it. The sour sensation bursts in your mouth like an explosion, it’s been days since you took a bite out of the pickled radish.

“It’s . . . Delicious.”

Sukuna scoffed, “Uraume is a good cook.”

“You made them cook?”

“For us. The concubines has too much time to tamper on your food,” he muttered under his breath, “are you going to dine yourself or do I have to feed you?”

“I don’t know,” you tease, “I do not feel like eating myself.”

Sukuna scowled, “You are making a fool out of me.”

“You gave the choice. I answered. You made a fool out of yourself,” you nonchalantly replied, “also, oh no, I struggle with my chopsticks. I think I will need help.”

“Uraume,” Sukuna calls out.

You stopped him, “I can eat by myself, My Lord.”

“I thought so.”

The fact that you’re still alive right now is a miracle. Sukuna had been stuck to your side for ages now— counting 6 months, according to Uraume. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to mind your presence at all.

Meals have been more relaxed. The teasing added up (on your side). Sukuna hadn’t let his concubines get away with fucking with you, his four eyes have come in handy with keeping tabs on you. Especially during bath time. He doesn’t follow you in, you had reprimanded him once for trying and he stopped.

Surprise.

From then on, he stood outside the bathe house. Arms crossed, concubines wonder what business he had waiting here. And were quite surprised when they find out you were the one he was waiting for— Sukuna commanded Uraume to get you the finest jewelries from all around, the finest fabrics to tailor into home wear, and the finest dine in experience.

“My Lord, do you not think that you are giving too much attention to that blind bitch?” One of the higher ranked concubines questioned in a sultry tone, her slender fingers rubbing Sukuna’s shoulder in a way he doesn’t enjoy.

In fact, he hasn’t been in bodily contact with any of his concubines even if they had indirectly suggested so. He brushed them off like they don’t matter more than a leaf on the ground, “Dare to repeat that?”

“We are neglected,” the other spoke, red kimono flowing elegantly along the tatami mat, “it is quite unfair for her to receive all your attention, and she isn’t even a concubine. Surely, you wouldn’t want to make love with . . . That.”

The way they spoke of you made his blood boil, but he kept his composure calm. Sitting there with two of them latched by his side, fingers tracing the shape of his chest languidly— their eyes screaming ‘make love to me, My Lord’. However, he paid no interest to them. Their fingers traced lower than he liked them to, and with a simple shrug, they were strewn off.

“I have no interest in making love with any of you.”

“My Lord—”

There was one thing he hates more than humans and that is weak humans like such. With a flick of his hand, the hall was blood filled. No screams of agony were fit in before these women’s lifeless bodies dropped loudly. Sukuna brushed his outfit, the splatter tattered his hakama, eliciting an annoyed grunt.

He wastes no time walking out of the chaos, Uraume eyed the condition of the room and instantly understood, “Get rid of them.”

“Understood, My Lord.”

“Inform me of (Name)’s presence.”

“She’s currently in her chambers, she had requested to be brought to the garden today . . .” Uraume bows his head down, retreating into the bloody hall. It wasn’t the first time they had to clean over Sukuna’s mess, and they know it wouldn’t be the last. To think that his Lord would do such things for a mortal was surprising, even surprising is an understatement.

“I will assist her,” Sukuna grabbed the napking Uraume offered, “get rid of the living concubines as well, I have no need for them anymore.”

“Get rid of them?”

“Kill them all.”

Sukuna took the fabric in between fingers, scrubbing off remnants of blood that etched onto his skin. His thundering footsteps echoed along the hall, the engawa shuddered under his weight as he sauntered down towards your chamber. He cleared his throat, sliding the door open.

There you were, sitting in the middle of the room. On your knees and fingers laced against each one of the other, he huffs at the pitiful sight, “Do you await for Uraume’s presence in that position?”

Hearing his voice made a small smile pop up on your face, your head bobs slowly, “I occasionally bump onto the furnitures here, and it doesn’t leave the most un-painful marks. I would rather sit here and wait.”

“Surely, you could have said something.”

“And bother Uraume? As much as I love bothering them with my constant nagging, I do feel somehow . . . Emphatic,” Sukuna blinked, his bottom pair of eyes looking around the room. Neatly made up, he had commanded Uraume to have the maids clean your room every morning during breakfast, “where is Uraume anyway? They are supposed to be assisting me to the garden.”

“Uraume is caught up in . . . An important matter as of currently,” the lie smoothly rolled out, “so, I will be assisting you today.”

“Really? I do not take you for a garden type of person— curse,” you correct yourself last second with a teasing smile.

Sukuna couldn’t hide the tug of his lips, he cleared his throat, “Shall we then?”

The invitation elicits a question, “Do you have your hand out? Because if I must remind you of the lack of vision once more, I will walk out by myself into the garden.”

“And fall off the engawa again?”

“I haven’t fall off in a long time,” you rolled your eyes, trying to find his hand, “and nobody cared to give me precautions over the estate’s turns. Am I supposed to learn everything by a miracle?”

“I would not let you fall.”

“How can I trust a curse?”

“By letting this curse prove you so,” you hummed when the warmth of his hand engulfed yours, slowly pulling you up onto your feet, “shall we?”

“I am unused to you acting so . . . Humane, it is quite odd,” you whisper out so softly that you couldn’t even hear it, almost.

His hand, so rough. Used to kill, used for the negatives of the world, now felt so little under your touch. The lingering warmth he felt under your fingertips made his chest flutter— he is a curse, he should not be getting attached to a mortal. In a way, he was signing up for heartbreak and heartbreak means weakness.

Sukuna and weakness don’t sit well together.

He averted his gaze out to the greens of his estate, guiding you around the corner, making sure your steps aren’t overlapping each other. Despite the brewing dilemma, he still handled you with care. Care. Odd feeling, his lower pair of eyes discreetly pan towards your form. Your dull eyes staring forward. If he thought about it, somehow be would love to thank your lack of vision.

Sukuna isn’t entirely attractive. To humans, at least. Two pair of eyes, two pair of arms, two mouths? For all he knows, even the concubines spoke ill of his appearance— they fear for their lives, and in his eyes they were just a flock of chicken prying for safety by going with the flow. The disarray look they had when he chose them proved enough. Pathetic.

"We have arrived," he announces out loud, "watch your step."

You took small steps on the wooden stairs leading down into the garden, his fingers curled against yours as guidance, "My Lord."

"Yes?" So soft, so unsuiting. He thought to himself, but the sight of you just made it come out.

"I do not know much about curses and their . . . Bathing schedules, do you not realize that you awfully smell of . . . Blood today?" Ah, yes. He swallowed slowly, his thumb caressed the back of your hand unconsciously, "do not get me wrong, usually you reek off earth and incense. Today however?"

"I heard you the first time, do not elaborate further," he hushed you in annoyance, "I killed the concubines."

You freeze. "Why?"

"That is what I do," he lied again, looking up at the sky. It was already a big blow to his ego that he dissected his concubines because they spoke ill of you— he does not need to elaborate further than that, no?

"I am sensing lies," Sukuna tightened his grip on your hand, "I don't want to pry."

Curse this. "They spoke ill of you," he fessed up, looking around the estate, "nobody speaks ill of you, but me."

"You are weird." So weird.

Sukuna grunt, "Am I now?" The teasing in his voice echoed softly into your ears. This is so unlike him at all that it scares you, the warmth in his voice differs from months before and you inhaled softly.

"I am a bit scared."

"Of me?"

"The new you."

Sukuna watches you step deeper into the garden, his steps followed behind yours slowly. Two pairs of eyes constantly looking left and right for any danger that lurked even in the estate, "Why do you attract yourself to such places as this? Quite boresome."

"It smells nice in here."

"Nice?" The sweet smell of flowers made his throat ache, it us anything but nice in here. But he held himself back from ruining the moment, arms crossed tightly.

You took small steps along the path, limbs stretched out to touch every single thing around the garden. Even if you have been here so many times, you were still one curious being, "Do you know what flower this is? Any knowledge?"

Sukuna spared a glance at the flower, "That is . . . A pink flower," he answered.

"I understand if you do not know the name of it, it has a funny shape," you touched the soft petals of it, and Sukuna's jaw slacked at the shame of not knowing his own flowers, "I like this one. I like this flower. Uraume is also quite clueless about the flowers around the estate. And they get pretty annoyed when I ask about it all the time."

You inhaled close to the flower, "Although I find it odd that it has no particular fragrance like other flowers."

Sukuna watched you from a good distance, the delicate touch against those flowers. And he took a good look at himself, the bloodied hakama, the way he looked. Surely, you wouldn't like how he looks . . . He remembered the shock on your face when he told you about the extra features. Monster. Fiend. Disgusting. It should have not bothered him that much, it didn't back then. But now that he's seen you in a different light, it does bother him to no end.

"My Lord."

"Mm?"

"I am ready to head back now, I think I'll ask Uraume to plant more of these flowers," you mumbled the first part to him and the rest to yourself, trying to find yourself back to him.

Sukuna lets you navigate on your own. And when you grasp his girthy arms, he felt himself relax, "Then we shall head back," he muttered, hiding the lower pair of his arms behind his back.

“Uraume.”

“My Lord?”

Sukuna looks out the window, grunting out softly, “I need a re-decor on that woman’s room, she keeps getting herself into trouble,” he muttered out, his eyes tracking down the birds flying around the estate, “and that pink flower in the garden. Plant more of those.”

Uraume raised their brow, “A re-decor?”

“A re-decor is what I said,” Uraume nods their head, unable to fight back. They had felt the softness that shaped around Sukuna gradually along the months, and as much as Sukuna tries to keep his sharp facade around you, Uruame isn’t stupid. They didn’t need long to put two and two together.

The curse, Sukuna Ryomen is in love with a mortal. Sukuna and love don’t go together, everyone knows that.

“I understand, I will have someone do a re-decor on her room,” they retracted away from Sukuna’s chambers, “and the flowers.”

Uraume lifted their gaze, the estate has been serene. Sukuna has not been furious once ever since you, he has been . . . Patient. Everything Sukuna isn’t— well, he is now. And it’s extremely odd! Swallowing back their words, they walked down the hall, feet slowly bringing themselves towards your chambers.

Following Sukuna’s orders, they had got rid of any living concubines from the estate. So, the estate was void of anyone besides the maids and well . . . You. Though, you were clueless of it. But you do wonder where all the concubines have went since you haven’t been exactly losing anything in particular.

Uraume slid the door open, expecting you inside. However, your chambers void of your figure, usually sat neatly in the middle waiting for them. Uraume furrowed their brows, “(Name)?”

“Uraume?”

Your voice came from outside. They tracked you down immediately, finding your form hunched over a bush, “I have fallen and I need help,” you tell them. Uraume took a good look at you hunched over the thick bush, green leaves stuck to your hair and outfit, you were a mess.

“How long have you been stuck there?” Uraume swallowed back a laugh.

“I do not know,” voice ripe with sheepishness, you wiggled your legs, “I cannot tell, I have lost count of it. I felt the need to guide myself to the garden alone today, but of course, this happens.”

“How have you managed to take a tumble?”

“I have fallen off the edge of the engawa yet again.”

Uraume had wasted no time informing of the matter to Sukuna right after they helped you up, brushed the leaves off your kimono, and made sure you spent a good time in the garden.

“(Name) has taken a tumble.”

Sukuna’s head panned up. He was quiet briefly, “The engawa, again?”

Uraume hums softly. “Yes.”

“Re-decor the whole estate,” he bluntly spoke, surprising Uraume mildly, “as fast as possible.”

So the whole redecorating begins, and as much as the maids and Uraume tries to keep their mouth shut about it. There will come the time when you find out the strongest curse has told the whole estate to shut their mouth about redecorating everything to favor you.

“Uraume,” you call out. Oddly enough, Uraume had moved you to a different chamber, much emptier, futon neatly folded and there weren’t any sharp corners at all. However, they did tell you this would be temporary.

It all started making sense when the maids would announce you about being careful around new things around the estate you do not remember anything of, “Mm?”

“Why has the estate change?”

You started the interrogation slowly, wanting Uraume to think you were this stupid and clueless woman asking innocent questions. Uraume grunted softly, “My Lord thought it needed some . . . Changes.”

“It is very (Name) friendly.”

“There is no point in fooling her anymore, she is not stupid.”

Mustering all the courage, Uraume turns their back to face Sukuna. His black hakama hung loose. Bare body, thundering footsteps, “Fooling me? You have been fooling me?” You gasped dramatically, throwing your hand over your mouth.

Sukuna glances towards Uraume, signaling for them to leave. And so leave they did, rushed footsteps leaving you behind. Sukuna’s hand brushed against the small of your back, guiding you back to your chambers. Your newly re-decorated chambers— very you, very carefully made, “I assumed you have done something to my chamber?”

“You assumed right.”

You blinked, “Tell me what is new.”

Sukuna’s eyes traveled around the new chamber, “Everything is new.”

“Which are . . ?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw before he spoke, “I made them rid of what could have been dangerous for you. Which were everything, the oshiire stays in the same place— I have made the maids search for the finest futon. They installed cabinets right here,” Sukuna’s hand brushed against yours, pulling your hand to touch the cabinet, “the corners are dull, hence, you would not hurt yourself,” he was right, the corners are dull, so dull that it made you stood there in awe.

“I had them move further into the chamber, so you would bump into them less, I hope.”

“You are quite kind.”

“Kind?” He scoffed, only to you.

A hum came from you, less convinced. You began making your way around the chamber, “Why?” Your one word question managed to rent the curse speechless, because he was internally asking himself the same thing, “Why do you go out your way to do this for me?”

“Courtesy.”

“Since when do you care about courtesy?” You questioned slyly, “The Sukuna caring about courtesy? I would think that you are excusing yourself, but truth to be told, I had not expect to still be alive by now.”

“Why would you think as such?”

“You said so, once I put up no use— I am a gone woman.”

The atmosphere shifts, he remembers clear as day. The words. Everything he told you in the past, “I misjudged you then,” he spoke, clearing his throat awkwardly, “it feels odd . . . Doing such things for a mortal. Believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle, “Fool.”

“The garden has changed as well.”

“I commanded Uraume to plant a lot of the flowers you seem to like,” Sukuna replied, “I have learnt about it. They are called camellia. Do not question where I inherited that information.”

“Where have you inherited that information from, My Lord?” You asked him anyways.

“From the scrolls.”

“You ventured the scrolls for me,” your conclusion made his body jolt. His fingers tightened a fraction around yours, “that is very nice of you.”

Sukuna huffed, “I am a monster, I am not nice.”

“Did they tell you that?”

Sukuna raised a brow, “I announce myself as such,” he dragged his hand up towards your arm, “I am quite glad that you lack the vision to see me. I am hideous.”

“Do you announce yourself as hideous too?”

“The mortals address me as such,” he scoffed, “at least I am powerful.”

Your smile faltered. For a beat, you were quiet, unknown of what to say. But you start parting your lips, “May I touch your face? I’d like to feel what my kind concludes as hideous.”

Sukuna freezes. He contemplates, but at the end, he hunches himself in front of you slightly, “I suppose,” it comes out a timid whisper and you pat down his hair first— the thick strands of his hair, the maids spoke of how thick they are and how beautiful his hair is. It is soft under your touch, and your fingers grazed over his forehead.

“Big forehead,” you bluntly spoke, “people of my village wanted their offspring to have big foreheads because they symbolized high intelligence. I suppose they are right about it.”

Then your fingers grazed over his shut eyes, you remembered his revelation about having four eyes. Two of them smaller than the others and located on a hard structure protruding from the right side of his face . . . A bone? Or wood perhaps, “What color are your eyes?”

“Red.”

“I do not know, but it sounds suiting,” you comment again as bluntly as possible, his warm breath pushed into your palm. And your fingers traced the outlines of his lips slowly— tugged into a frown, typical of him, “I think you should smile,” and the corners of his lips began tugging upwards slightly.

Your hand pats down his face, down to his neck, “Thick neck, okay,” you remind him, “very muscle filled. That’s nice, you must work out a lot.”

Do not even start, his muscles were just wonderful. The outline of his bicep that you trace slowly made your stomach flip, “Are you shirtless?”

“I am always shirtless.”

“Creep.”

“You seem to enjoy touching my muscles,” he teased, letting your fingers traced onto his wrist, “what about my wrist now?”

“Big arms. Signifies strength,” and then you began patting the air around him.

Which for a bit, confused him, “What is it you are seeking for, woman?”

“Four arms.”

Ah. Sukuna tried his best to hide the two pair of arms but now that you had asked for it, he couldn’t help but to help guide your hands onto the bottom pair of arms, “It feels odd, no?” You elicit a giggle out of you, “What is so worthy of a laugh right now?”

“I can only feel two arms.”

Sukuna begrudgingly tucked the collar of your kimono neatly, covering your collarbone, and your hand shoots out to grab his hand, “Three.”

With the last hand, he grabbed your free hand, “Four. It feels disgusting, no?”

“You have an extra pair, where is the problem at that? I’d say you would work faster labor,” you whisper, wiggling your fingers gently as his fingers circled around your wrist, gently stroking your skin like a delicate glass, “I do not find any monstrosity on you, hence, you are not hideous.”

He stares you down. He isn’t hideous to the only human that matters, that is more than anything else. Sukuna swallowed the rest of his unknown insecurities inside. How funny, the curse, proclaimed strongest. Never had he felt insecure about his look until you— a blind mortal decided to drop by out of the blue, all of a sudden everything mattered more than usual.

“That so?”

“Mhm.”

He released your hand, “Then you are blind—” he stops himself, looking down at you. Who currently had a cheshire smile on your face, “Apologies. I seemed to have forgotten.”

“You? Apologized?” Only to you. Only to his woman.

“I did. We speak no more of that.”

“I will speak of it to Uraume.”

“Especially not Uraume.”

“I want to venture beyond the estate.”

Sukuna eyed you incredulously, you were safer behind the gates, right here with him. Why would you choose to venture out straight into the dangers of the world? He has made it clear to everyone that you belonged to him, here you were tucked inside the safety behind his arms, and you were asking such . . . Odd questions.

“Beyond? Elaborate.”

“I want to go outside and have fun,” you spoke out with such happiness that his heart swaggered, “I can take Uraume for precautions. I want to explore the world more, I do not want to be stuck here like a bird in a cage.”

“Why take Uraume when you can take me?”

“Uraume seems more loose on schedule.”

“I do not have schedules.”

You coaxed yourself to look up, “You do not? I would have thought royalty—”

“I am no royal.”

“You are king of curses, that is royalty,” your opinion flows out like an argument, he sighs at your stubborn tone, “victory is mine yet again.”

“Yes, yes. Why would you possibly want to put yourself in danger beyond the estate when you are safer in here?” You were stuck in the belly of his shrine, cringing from how frequent you walked down the engawa that you had remembered every route by now. You wanted more. The thrill of it, the fun, “I am not letting you step foot out of the estate.”

His lower pair of arms curled around your torso, pulling you back onto his chest. You sulked, “It is not the same, you are being selfish.”

“I am protecting you.”

“From what?”

“Humans. Predators. You do not know what is out there,” he spoke, tone laced with impatience, “I do not wish for you to get hurt, is that too hard to understand?”

“I will be fine, I am always fine.”

He should have known you, you have always been a rebel since the first time he commanded Uraume to drag you back here. So, it wasn’t a surprise when Uraume told him that you were not located in your chambers, “Locate her, Uraume. Surely she hasn’t gone too far.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Sukuna stood up, a black haori hanging on his shoulders loosely. He stood up, should have known, you don’t back down. That’s one of the reasons why he had gotten so attached to you, “Prepare to set out, Uraume.”

You had taken a broom out, using the stick as a navigator. So far, you had successfully entered into biomes of trees outside the estate and you couldn’t tell how far you had gotten. The stick of the broom prevented you from bumping into the rough tree barks and tumbling over bushes. Uraume should make a stick like this for you, how could you not think of this?

A soft tune echoed in a form of a hum from you, curious fingers touching every single thing. Burying your nose into different things you could touch, “Mm,” you moaned, plucking the wild flower and shoving it into the obi of your kimono to show Uraume later.

What a vast mistake this is. No sense of direction, you should have brought a maid along with you. Every turn you took seemed the same, trees and bushes. Occasionally wet patches on the ground made your sandals sink slightly. When the owls began sounding their loud horns, a wave of panic washes over you.

The itch on your arms made you groan, fingernails digging to cease the feeling. Your brows pinched together, trying to find anything that could be of help, “Hello?” You call out.

But the trees are endless, every time you call out for anyone, your voice bounced back to you. And you were beginning to grow restless, the feeling of uneasiness creeping into your body. Your kimono felt heavier, and your sandals felt wobbly now. You cursed, you should have listened to Sukuna. You should have asked Uraume to come along to guide you.

On the other hand, Sukuna walks calmly through the trees, Uraume walking ahead. The darkness was his forte, he loves it. But he had lost track of the hours he spent walking around what seemed to be similar places, “Where has that woman off to? I tell her one time that she is safer inside that estate and she flees.”

“There are bandits residing in this forest, we should locate her quickly, My Lord.”

Bandits. Sukuna scoffed, they could never compare to him— but you? You were as defenseless as a newborn calf. And now that it was dark, the bandits were surely on the move to find income. And God knows what they could do to you. Sukuna grunted, crossing his arms.

You ran into the trees. Unknown of what was currently chasing you deeper, the adrenaline striking inside you made you lose your broom and all you could rely on was your limbs. You could make out the crude laughter from . . . People? Or were they animals?

A loud yelp escaped you when your foot dug into what seemed to be a trap, the pain dug into your ankle. No, no, no. You chant, this couldn’t be happening right now, your fingers dug onto the wet soil, trying to find the power to continue running, “There!” Ah, so they were humans.

Bandits. You assume. Back when you lived in the village, bandits frequently dropped by and chaos ensued. But there were so many people fighting back, now? It was just you.

“She’s dressed grand, surely she has a few dimes on her,” one of them spoke, the bushes rustling to your right and you clutch onto your hands in fear. Moving slowly backwards, crawling on the ground hopelessly, “her necklace looks pricy.”

“Just get anything that looks grand. We’ll get a price outta whatever.”

You shook your head, “Please,” your plead fell into deaf ears when you feel someone pull on the necklace Sukuna made for you, the string snapping under the force and you grasp the air, “no, anything but that. It means a lot to me, please.”

Your head snapped to the side, your cheek seared. Had one of them just striked you? You whimpered in pain, muddy hand flying up to touch the burning spot. They laughed. How could they laugh at the expense of you!?

“Get the hairpin. Looks like gold.”

You grabbed it before they could, “No,” you clutched it into your chest, another one of Sukuna’s gift from not too long ago, “this is precious to me.”

“Unfortunately, we do not care.”

The gems ripped into your skin when they forcefully grabbed it. You lunged forwards, grabbing onto whatever belonged to them you could hold onto, “Give that back to me,” you mutter out.

“Let go of me, you blind bitch!”

The hits delivered to you were relentless. Then again, these were bandits, they don’t care about anything but money. You held onto one of them tightly, the pain slowly registering into every place they hit— punches, kicks. One of them tried to wiggle their leg out of your grasp, pulling your hair back in annoyance, “I’ll kill you, you prude!”

And then just like that. Silence ensued.

You felt the leg go limp and you breathe heavily, what was happening? Sukuna emerged from behind the trees, annoyance written on every crease on his face as he approaches you. And the second his eyes landed on your battered figure, he glowered out, grabbing your arm tightly, “Why did you not call for help!?”

The surprise from before lingered, and you stuttered out, “My Lord—”

“Look at this,” he loudly said, clamping your jaw tightly, the cuts on your face registered into his mind, “and this,” he pulled your leg.

“I . . .”

“Shut your mouth.”

Once you were settled back inside the estate, Uraume helped you draw a warm bath. Scrubbing the mud stuck to your hair, your kimono was left for the maids to scrub, your wounds were taken care of quickly. The bandages wrapped around your ankle a constant reminder of your stupidity, and once all of that was settled, Uraume helped you into Sukuna’s chambers.

He was not happy. He was far from that.

The door slid shut softly and Uraume walked away. Sukuna steps closer to you, “I give you everything you wanted. You ask me for a bigger garden, I commanded them to reconstruct it,” he drawls out calmly, his fingers thrusting to your shoulder gently, “you ask me for deer meat and I commanded Uraume to hunt the finest deers. I have complied to you every single time.”

“You ask me for the finest fabrics and I have the maids venture out from village to village to earn it, you ask me for a new hairpin and I have provided, you ask me for everything I have complied,” his voice grew louder, “I ask for one thing. For you to stay inside the estate, in safety, and you chose the danger outside.”

Your head fell in shame, “I just . . .”

“You are stupid.”

Your brows pinched, “I am not . . .”

“You track back on what had happened, is it not caused by your stupidity? You claim to be smarter than a curse and here I am saving you from a scenario you created on your own,” he shook your body in anger, “and if Uraume and I hadn’t been there on time? You would have died!”

You snapped back, “Why do you care!? You are just a curse, you do not have feelings!”

“To hell with that!” He yelled back, “I hate admitting but I do care for you. Only you, haven’t I made it clear?”

“You’ll get rid of me nonetheless!”

“Do not put words into my mouth, woman,” he muttered out, clenching his fists in anger, “don’t you dare say I do not care because every complies I did was for you. I did this for you. I lowered my ego for you. Is that not enough? Tell me then, tell me what makes it enough for you to digest that I, king of curses, Sukuna Ryomen do care for a human.”

You stammered, “I . . . You are lying.”

“I lie occasionally to people, yes. Have I ever lied to you?”

“Probably!”

“Mention it to me,” Sukuna growled, “mention one time I have spat out a lie to you.”

“I . . .” You left the gap open.

And Sukuna filled it in, “You do not know? Because I have never done that to you,” he muttered, releasing your shoulders. His heart burnt in anger, but he kept his mouth shut.

You clenched your fists, your anger turned into tears. The crystals slowly dribbled out and you sniffled, “I just wanted to explore.”

“Alone? You are out of your damn mind.”

“You wouldn’t have agreed.”

Sukuna scoffed loudly, “You have a habit of putting the words into my mouth,” he scowled under his breath, looking down at you. The harder your tears fall, the more he becomes annoyed, “stop crying. I command you to stop crying this instant, your tears won’t stop my fury.”

Sliding your arm over your eyes, you striked a hand blindly towards his presence. Which managed to land along the side of his neck, “You dare strike me?”

“I hate you!”

Sukuna hummed, “You are angry.”

“I will never be able to love someone like you, you are a monster. You do not let me do anything, I feel like a prisoner here,” you sobbed. The feelings were not like that— his words made the ticking time bomb blew and you were pulling at his strings, “I hate you. I loathe you. I wish for you to disappear.”

Sukuna stepped back, his hand hovered over his lips. He wanted to say much, but stopped. And he shuts the conversation down, “Understandable. Get out of my sight.”

As the night draws on. You laid on your futon, your chest heavy, you had been lying awake there since . . . hours ago. Your own words eating you up, knowing they weren’t right. The anger speaking for you, just for the victory because he made you angry. But now it was eating you alive.

Your emotions were divided. One side, you were angry at yourself for saying that. And the other part of you just felt sad that you had pushed him away; to think that you told him he was a monster too. Another tear slipped from your eye, and you sat up.

You brought yourself to the front of his chamber, for a bit you wondered if he was in the mood to see you right now. But, you shook your head, clamping your hand onto the shoji door before sliding it open, “What business do you have in here?”

You try to pinpoint his position. Teeth sinking onto your bottom lip, “I need to apologize.”

“For speaking the truth?”

“For speaking of lies.”

Sukuna grunts, “Does not sound like lies.”

You stomp your foot, “Those are lies, you are not a monster. And I am too immature to realize that you were just protecting me . . . I was too prideful to admit my own mistakes. I do not hate you, I do not loathe you, and I do not wish for you to disappear . . .” Your voice cracked at the end and you pursed your lips tightly.

Sukuna turns to look at you. How pitiful and small you looked right now, “That so? You spoke of not being able to love a monster like me—”

You cut him off, “I still love you anyways. I do not care if people view you as one, I love you. I have always do,” your voice broke into wrecked sobs, fingers dug into your own hakama, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for saying that.”

Sukuna watches your body tremble from the sobs, one of his hand tugged on your arm and you fell into his lap. He huffs loudly, “Watch your tongue next time.”

You bury your face into the crook of his neck. He lets you have your time, sitting there, unmoving.

Sukuna blows out a sigh, “Are you finished with the waterworks?”

“If it means that you will stop holding me like this, no I am not done,” you muffled out. Sukuna held your nape, peeling you gently away from your hiding spot. Snotty nose, red nose, tear stricken. You looked terrible, he thought, “what?”

He leans in, his tongue stretched out scooping a tear and his lips touched your eyelids. Sukuna shuts his eyes, “You say that but I never stopped you from touching me, do I?” His lips moved against your skin.

“You . . .” You began to say, but he stopped you, lips tracing down your cheek and he stopped right at the corner of your lips, “do not tease me.”

“Your reactions are amusing.”

“It is not,” you whisper in shame, brows already drawn together in embarrassment. Sukuna cuts the embarrassment short, his lips molded into yours slowly— you slowly relaxed under his touch, brows relaxing and you shut your eyes, leaning into the kiss.

For a curse, his movements were gentle. Like he feared that his own hand would hurt you, one of his hand tucked right behind your head gently tangled into your hair as his lips moved against yours slowly. He pulled back briefly, muttering out, “We do not speak of this to Uraume.”

“I will tell them all about it.”

“Is that so?” Sukuna asks, you nodded.

“Then tell them all about this, yes?” He sealed back the kiss, lips moving with fervor that you whimper into his mouth. He swallowed your noises, tongue caressing your plump lips slowly that you couldn’t help but to part them in a trance, his arms held you so close that your chest pressed against his, but Sukuna pulls back the moment he realized you sucking in a breath, “I have gone too far. Apologies. Are you alright?”

You bob your head, covering your face. He used a set of his hands to peel your hands away, “Surely Uraume would not mind the details, no? Or shall I elaborate more?”

“N . . . No, that was enough details.”

Sukuna’s thumb traced over your lips, his iron hands used to do all the wrongs in the world. Now, clasped in sets of velvet gloves, just for you.

© v3is, 2026 ﾒ do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on another platform + do not feed my works into AI.

[suku-enthusiasts]

I'm So Much Better Than Him || Ryomen Sukuna

ryomen sukuna x f!reader - one shot series

❝You were stuck in a love that dimmed you— sweet words turned bitter, touch turned cold. And Sukuna? He watched. Waited. Furious and quiet, fists clenched, muttering, “She deserves better. She deserves me.” When it all broke, he caught you. Now he kisses your scars like they’re sacred, groans your name like it’s a curse he’s grateful for, and says shit like, “Let me show you what being wanted really feels like.” You were hurt once. Now you’re worshipped. And Sukuna’s always been yours. He was just waiting for you to come home.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. serious fluff

main masterlist

wilting it wasn't secret... just private thats not the weather app! HEART FOLDER family style say what you mean every room baby midnight convos two new roommates say it baby not like before sunlight & shadows gym rat games the garden surprise sex ban!! chaos and cuddles safe enough to crythirst traps 101 you're gonna speak one way or another mirror obsession game night chaos sick day cuddles how one shelf nearly ended the engagement... not really how the kitchen nearly burned down, & you on the counter

[vennywrites]

When Sukuna wants to visit his brother’s grave, he can’t show up empty-handed, which leads him right to your flower shop for the first time. (1k | mentions of loss | Masterlist)

When the door opens with a chime, he walks in with a fresh breeze of spring air.

You’ve never seen him before. Giant, build like a bear, tattoos inked into the skin of his face and arms. Clean lines cut along his jawline and thick neck, two bands of black around his wrists. There’s silver glinting on his eyebrow and lip, hair messy from the wind, orangy-pink strands hanging into his face.

Greeting him falls flat as he only looks your way, a barely there nod before he slowly trails down the aisles of flowers. You like to sort them by colors, rainbow shades lining your shop. The gerbera you got this morning matches his hair and one of the orchids that sits delicately on one of the wrought iron shelves has the same color as his eyes.

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

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

“Can I help you?” you ask eventually and his eyes snap towards you as if he forgot you were there to begin with. Several beats pass before he slowly nods, taking a step into your direction.

“Looking for something to put on a grave.”

Oh. You brush your hands against the apron you wear and round the counter.

“My condolences,” you start but he just waves off as if it’s unnecessary. You don’t question it. Instead, you come to a halt beside him, try to see what caught his eye.

“Are you thinking about planting it in soil or rather, a bouquet?”

He shrugs and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “Just something to let him know I haven’t forgotten him.”

“A recent loss?”

“No.”

The most obvious choice would be roses, white or dark red, maybe both, a mix of pistachio leaves and some ornamental grass. Despite knowing better, he intrigues you and so, you keep asking.

“Family or friend?”

“Family.”

Despite the one-word answers, he entertains your questions, eyes glued to the marbled pothos leaves.

Roses would be too easy, you decide. Too easy for a man like him, towering beside you, curious hair color and strange ink on his face. You like the way he doesn’t seem to care about what other’s think. And since you’ve always loved a challenge and to tell stories with your flowers, you try to match him with what you pick.

“Were you close?”

That takes a while to verify an answer. His eyes dart around a bit before they settle on your dirty hands, stained green from the stems you’ve cut, band aids where thorns have pricked you.

“Twins…”

The physical ache in your heart is real, so is the flicker of something like pain in his eyes before he turns his head to the side and wanders over to the row of assorted flowers. You follow, try to fight for composure, try not to reach out to him, to console where he doesn’t want it. So, you do the only thing that’s left.

“White often holds the meaning of innocence, faith but also sorrow,” Carefully, you pull a calla lily out of it’s bucket.

“Dark red symbolizes lasting love and mourning,” one of the dark red roses wanders into your hands, one of it’s thorns digging into your soft skin and you try not to flinch.

“Carnations—“ you wander down the aisle to where the multicolored and variegated flowers stand, buckets with tulips and carnations in all sort of combinations. One of the white ones with a red rim catches your eye and you pull it from the bucket. “— hold a variety of meanings, especially since they come in color combinations.”

You twirl the flower in your hands, the thin petals fluttering with the movement.

“Love, remembrance, loyalty but also farewell.”

Carefully, you scan his face for any hint of what he might be thinking but all you catch is a muscle fluttering at his throat.

Holding out the three flowers, you try to show them to him.

“Any speaking to you? Any you like?”

His dark eyes muster each flower before he points at the red-trimmed carnation.

“Full bouquet or are you thinking more of a single flower?”

If you would have to guess, he seems more like the single flower type - nothing extra, nothing pompous.

“One of those…,” he mutters and points once again at the bicolor carnation.

You offer him more, the whole bouquet to pick the one he likes best but he’s undeterred and keeps pointing at the one you already have in hand.

Gently, you place the rose and the lily back into their place down the line and wander over to your counter.

“Decorative green?”

Quickly, you whip up a bit of ivy and decorative leaves, bundle it all together and hold it out to him.

“Nah, just this one…” despite his preference, you remove all but one of the green leaves, showing it again. “Like this maybe?” He gives in, nods and lets you tie it up. Instead of twine, you choose black lace, tie a neat little bow to keep it all together.

He’s followed you to the counter, one arm leaning against the wooden surface as he watches you work. Tendons and muscles flex as he shifts, thin lined scars criss-cross his skin, some darker, deeper ones that seem to have barely healed, circular and strange. The skin there is reddish, stretches like burned tissue.

“First time coming here?” you ask in an attempt to make conversation, eyes dancing up to his face.

“Just here for a visit…”

Eyes flickering down to your fingers, you grin as you say your next words. “Enjoy your stay in Tokyo then…”

“Nah just—“ he hesitates for a moment before offering you more information. “— not from this side of the city.”

Naming the price, he hands the yen and a few extra coins over. “Keep the change.”

You hand over the carnation and feel the warmth of the coins in your palm. He must have held onto them for a while already, heating up the metal with his own skin.

When he’s almost at the door, you call after him.

“You know what else this flower symbolizes?” He turns, sharp features a glaring cut against the bright outside behind him.

“Hope.”

You imagine he smiles, face cast in shadow as his tattoos shift with the movement before he turns and leaves. Another chime of your door, another fresh breete of air rustling your flowers.

Masterlist

[zarameraki]

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 spider hybrid sukuna x lost explorer 𖥔 set in fantasy era 𖥔 little plot with porn 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 oral play

: ̗̀➛ words: 4.5k

: ̗̀➛ notes: yeah, we getting that monster c0ck. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

You had always been a creature of restless curiosity, the sort of young lady whose spirit chafed against the courteous confines of drawing rooms and assemblies. Corseted in the finest whalebone and silk, your gown a deep forest green that whispered against the undergrowth, you had slipped away from the carriage road at dawn, drawn by the wildest rumours whispered over tea in the shires. 

The Cursed Woods. 

Archaic, untamed groves beyond the estate boundaries where no sensible gentlewoman ventured. Tales spoke of a creature by the name of Sukuna Ryomen, woven by something not quite man nor beast, and of explorers who entered never to return. 

And yet here you were, an amateur explorer in the rare moments you weren’t being paraded before wealthy bidders by your own wicked family, lantern clenched in your gloved hand, and your heart beating in a way no proper lady was ever meant to keep.

The deeper you traversed, the canopy thickened until daylight became a mere whisper sifted through leaves like stained glass. Branches snagged at your hem, roots twisted like conscious fingers beneath your soles. 

“Ridiculous human-spider nonsense,” you muttered to yourself. “Meagre superstition to frighten children and keep the curious at bay.” Still, your pulse quickened as the path narrowed to little more than a deer track, and the ground beneath your feet began to feel . . . 

Uh-oh. 

One incautious step, and the world betrayed you. 

A cry escaped your lips as you plummeted underground, graceful even in alarm, as ferns and dirt rushed past. Your lantern tumbled away, its flame sputtering out. 

WHOOSH! 

Impact, but not the bone-shattering sort you feared. Instead, you found yourself ensnared in something expansive: a web of unimaginable scale, strands viscous as a ship’s rope yet glowing like the finest Venetian silk. They clung to your skirts, your arms, your waist, binding you fast in a cradle of silver threads that swayed gently in the below-ground gloom.

You struggled with urgency. “Unhand me, you infernal contraption!” you hissed, though the web had no ears. That cage of fashion tightened around your waist, restricted your breath and made every twist a trial. The chamber around you was a cavern of roots and rock, lit by a murky brilliance that painted everything in ethereal blues and greens. 

And there, at the web’s centre, something stirred.

He descended with grace, eight limbs moving in harmony—four powerful arms crossed over a broad, tattooed chest, four legs (jointed and armoured like a spider’s, yet scaled to a man’s formidable height) carrying him down the strands without a sound. His hair was a shock of rosewood pink, and his crimson eyes—four of them, goodness—fixed upon you with the jest of a cat discovering a particularly fine mouse. Markings like ancient runes adorned his skin, raven and intricate, and his mouth curved into a smile that revealed sharp teeth. 

The spider-hybrid of the woods, Sukuna Ryomen. He was real. And he wore no coat nor cravat, leaving the sculpted planes of his torso scandalously exposed.

“Well, well,” he drawled a rich, velvety baritone with the decorum of high society. Yet, it was hemmed with something ancient and bestial, as though the very woods had taught him elocution. “What dainty little morsel has the forest delivered onto me this eve? A lady of quality, by the cut of that gown. Pray, do cease your delightful squirming. You shall only ensnare yourself further, and I should hate to see such an exquisite creature ruined before I have properly admired it.”

You stilled, lifting your chin with all the dignity a woman bound in spider silk could muster. Your cheeks burned, but your tongue remained sharp as a hatpin. “Admired? Ha! You presume a great deal. I am no trinket for your perusal, nor have I any intention of remaining your guest. Release me at once, or I shall— Well, I shall scream until the very birds flee the canopy above.”

Sukuna’s chuckle thundered through the web, sending shiverings along the strands that brushed your skin like a lover’s breath. Two of his arms unfolded, long fingers—clawed ever so delicately at the tips—tracing the space near your shoulder without quite touching. The other two remained folded, while his four legs moved, circling you slowly, the web creaking softly under his weight. 

“Scream, would you? How delightfully dramatic. I rather think the woods would swallow the sound, much as they have swallowed you. And as for release, that would rather spoil the sport, would it not?” He leaned closer, one scarlet eye narrowing in mock solemnity. “Tell me, little moth, what possessed a creature so delicately bred to wander these depths? Seeking adventure, or merely fleeing the tedium of balls and betrothals?” 

Oh, goodness. 

He was arrogance incarnate, this eight-limbed enigma, yet there was an intelligence in his gaze that made your heart thump traitorously. “I sought knowledge, not captivity,” you replied, forcing your voice to remain controlled. “Rumours of a beast in these woods, though I see now the tales failed to capture your . . . singular classiness. Or is it customary among your kind to greet visitors with bondage and banter?”

Another laugh. “How prettily you flatter, even whilst trussed like a Christmas goose. Most ladies of your station would faint dead away by now. I confess, it intrigues me. Perhaps I shall keep you a while longer.” One clawed hand brushed a stray curl from your cheek, the touch feather-light, nearly courteous. “Or merely unravel that infuriating corset and see what lies beneath all that propriety.”

Four arms bolted beside you like the bars of the most luxurious cage. You could do little more than meet his gaze and retort, “By all means, unravel away. But do not expect me to surrender so easily. I am made of sterner stuff than your flimsy threads would suggest.”

A fiendish smile curled Sukuna’s lips as one of his clawed hands rose. “A challenge, little moth? How utterly delicious. Let us see how long that sterling composure lasts when I lay you bare.”

With a flick, he drew your corset downward in a stroke. The whalebone parted like butter under a hot knife, the laces snapping free. The bodice sagged open, falling away in ruined halves to dangle from the web’s strands, and oh—the rush of cool air against your skin was nothing short of indecent relief. 

You drew in a deep, grateful lungful, your bosom rising and falling freely for the first time since dawn, the thin cotton of your brassiere the only barrier left.

Sukuna’s eyes darkened with unmistakable hunger. “There now,” he purred. “Those full, glorious breasts of yours are quite the vision. I wager no powdered gentleman in his starched suit ever made your blood run quite so hot, did he?” 

A mortified flush spread down your throat and across the swell of your breasts. You were baffled by the insistent discomfort blooming low in your gut, the way your body betrayed you for this acidic creature rather than any eligible lord who had ever bowed over your gloved hand. “You are insufferable,” you whispered.

“Yet your body weeps for me already, I suspect,” he finished with a dark chuckle, leaning in so his breath ghosted warm over your collarbone. “Do not trouble yourself to deny it, my dear. I can smell how your most private places have grown eager. Now, let us dispense with this last scrap of modesty.”

Another gash of his claw, and the brassiere gave way altogether.

Your breasts spilled free at last, bouncing softly with the motion of the web. Sukuna wasted no time. Two of his hands cupped them at first, talons circling the stiff peaks of your nipples with infuriating slowness, while the other two gripped your waist, holding you as he lowered his head. His tongue rolled out to lave an aching bud, drawing it into his mouth with a suction that made your back arch and a soft, mortified moan escape your lips.

“Marvellous,” he whispered. “I could devote hours to them until you are quite beside yourself, watching you writhe while I lavish every inch of this magnificent bosom.” He switched to the other breast, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before soothing it with his tongue, all while his fingers kneaded and rolled the neglected peak between claw-tipped digits, sending sparks of pleasure-pain forthright to your core.

No gentleman had ever spoken to you thus, let alone touched you with such shameless expertise. And yet, as Sukuna’s mouth worshipped your breasts—licking, sucking, nipping until they glistened with his saliva and your nipples pulsated with need—you could only whimper, lost to the sinful thrill of it all.

“Such responsive little berries,” he spoke against your skin. “They harden so eagerly for me, do they not?” 

Before you could summon a retort, two additional strands of silk shot forth from the web above. They coiled about your wrists with strength, drawing your arms upward and pinning them securely on either side of your head. The position left you deliciously exposed, your bosom thrust forward, heaving with each ragged breath.

At the same moment, his lower limbs hooked beneath your knees, parting your thighs wide, while the others anchored your ankles firmly to the web’s strands. With another strike of his claws, the fine fabric of your dress and all beneath it fell away in ruins to leave you entirely bare before him. There, between your spread thighs, your nectar had already begun to gather, like the sweetest honey upon the petals of a forbidden bloom. 

“Much better,” Sukuna purred, four eyes gleaming with approval. His gazes dropped, drinking in the sight with undisguised hunger. A single nail extended, tracing the inside of your thigh before collecting a glistening drop of your arousal upon its tip. He brought it to his lips, tongue darting out to taste you with an appreciative hiss. 

He groaned. “The very woods themselves have ripened you for me.”

“You cannot—those claws—they are far too sharp!” you protested. “They would tear me asunder. I should die of it, I am certain.”

His chuckle came from his chest, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Ever the practical human. Very well, then. No claws for that most delicate of feasts.” With a flick, he withdrew the offending talon, and in its place came the heat of his tongue. He dragged it slowly up the seam of your sex, savouring every drop of you before delving deeper. The sensation was devastating: long, languid strokes that parted your folds and circled the sore pearl at your centre, followed by the sudden, profane thrust of his tongue inside you.

You cried out, wrists straining uselessly against the bonds, ankles stapled wide as he devoured you with single-minded vehemence. Sukuna feasted as though you were the rarest delicacy, his mouth sealing over your most intimate place, tongue plunging and curling while two of his hands returned to your breasts, tormenting your nipples in perfect tandem with every lap of his tongue.

The cavern reverberated with your helpless moans and the vulgar sounds of his hunger, the web shaking underneath you as pleasure curled tighter and tighter in your gut.

Sukuna’s tongue continued its ruthless invasion upon you, the appendage far longer and more devious than any mortal man’s could ever be. It extended, delving deep into your fluttering passage while the wide, flat tip of it curled and stroked within, coaxing forth waves of your release. At the same moment, his lips closed around your swollen bead, sending lightning racing up your spine.

You cried out the most indecent of sonatas, tears of overwhelming sensation gathering at the corners of your eyes. The pleasure was too keen, exquisite, and yet you could not bear for him to stop.

“Gods above,” Sukuna growled against your reddened folds. His four eyes lifted to drink in the sight of you—cheeks flush, bosom upheaving, every inch of your skin glowing with a delicate sheen of labour. “This cunt of yours is clenching around my tongue as though it were starved for a proper ravishing.” One of his hands left your breast to trace a claw lightly along your inner thigh, never quite breaking skin. “I am merely preparing you, my little moth, readying this untouched passage for the far greater intrusion to come.” 

Another broken cry tore from your throat as his tongue extended even further, probing against the hidden, sensitive spot deep within while his mouth continued its suction upon your pearl. “Please—I cannot!” 

The words dissolved into a helpless sob of rapture as he redoubled his efforts. 

Sukuna merely laughed against your sex. “You can, and you shall, little moth. Cry for me.” 

The pleasure crested like a tidal wave, your entire body drawing taut. Your vision blurred with tears, a sob rising in your throat—“Oh, heavens, I am—” 

And then he withdrew entirely.

The sudden absence was a cruelty beyond measure. Your eyes flew open, wide with outrage, and the words burst from you in a voice scratchy yet blazing with the fire of a lady pushed past all etiquette. “You insufferable, wicked demon!” You fought against the webs that still held you fast. “How dare you leave me teetering upon the very brink? Release me this instant, or I swear I shall find a way to strangle you with your own silk!”

Sukuna threw back his head and laughed, thoroughly delighted by your fruitless squabbling. “There she is,” he said. “I knew fire lurked beneath that façade.”

With a lazy flick of two clawed hands, the silken strands binding your wrists and ankles disbanded into shimmering threads that floated away like dandelion seeds. He caught you effortlessly in all four arms before you could even slump, lowering you with surprising gentleness onto the centre of the web. The strands cradled you like the finest featherbed, cool beneath your bare skin.

You lay there, watching him rise above you. Sukuna’s lower body moved, the chitinous plating that armoured his spider-like abdomen parting with an organic click. 

What emerged robbed the breath from your lungs.

His manhood stood proud and intimidating, stout and girthy, flushed a deep red that matched the colour of his eyes. It was monstrous in proportion, the broad head already beading with arousal. The sight of it sent a flutter through your core, your inner walls grasping with helpless want even as trepidation raced down your spine. It would split you open, and yet your mouth watered at the mere thought of it.

Sukuna wrapped one large hand around his shaft, stroking himself slowly from root to tip. The sight was lewd and mesmerizing; his four eyes never left your face as he worked himself, thumb sweeping over the flushed head with each pass.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, unwilling to surrender the last shred of defiance. “Look at you, stroking that grotesque thing as though it could ever fit. You think you can break me with it? Come and try. I am no tender debutante to faint at the first sight of a real man—or monster, as the case may be.” A mirthful smirk curved at your mouth. “But know this: if you leave me wanting again, I shall make you regret it.”

“Well, well. Let us see if your cunt sings the same tune once I have stretched you wide.” Sukuna’s grin widened, his hand still moving in hypnotic strokes. “Touch it. Take this grotesqueness in your hands and bring it to your mouth. I would feel those lips upon me before I claim what is mine.”

You hesitated, but the fascination proved stronger than fear. Slowly, you reached out. Your fingers wrapped as best they could around the girthy base. It was scorching hot, velvet-sheathed sword, far too wide for one hand alone; you required both, and even then, they barely met. You turned your face away at first, cheeks boiling with revolt, yet your gaze kept wafting back, enchanted by the bizarre, spongy ridges that lined the underside—raised and pulsing like living silk.

Curiously, your fingertips traced them, exploring the texture with feather-light strokes. 

Sukuna hissed in pleasure. “Ah, you have found them,” he stated. “Those, my dear, are where my seed gathers. A spider’s gift, if you will. They shall throb against your cunt when I bury myself deep, flooding you until you overflow.”

For one wild, delirious instant, your mind wandered: could a human even carry such a creature’s eggs? The ludicrous thought of your belly bulging with his spawn nearly made you laugh aloud at the ridiculousness of it. What nonsense. You were no broodmare for woodland monsters, no matter how your body carried the brightest torch for him.

Sukuna clearly read the trace of your thoughts upon your face. “Enough wool-gathering, love.” He guided the heavy length of his manhood with his hand until the head patted your cheek twice, leaving a faint glistening trail upon your skin. “Kiss it. Show me that mouth knows how to worship as well as it scolds.”

You lifted your chin, eyes narrowing in one last spark of rebellion. “You presume a great deal, creature. I am no common doxy to be ordered around . . .” The words faltered under his carnivorous gaze, under the heat of him pressed to your cheek. With a defeated huff, you leaned in and pressed a single, chaste kiss to the tip, tasting the salt of his arousal.

Sukuna groaned in approval.

It was clear at once that no more than that small kiss would ever fit. The shaft itself was as thick as a young tree limb, elephantine in its proportions. You dragged your tongue along the underside, tracing those porous ridges that had so fascinated you. You followed with the gentle suckling of your lips around the side of the head, tongue swirling where you could reach, while your fingers stroked what your mouth could not encompass.

Sukuna’s four arms braced around you, two of them threading gently through your hair to hold you close without forcing, the others stroking your shoulders or the curve of your waist. “You are doing beautifully,” he spoke with fractured pleasure. 

You whimpered around him, the taste of him scattering your marbles, your neglected desire pulsing between your thighs as you continued your eager attentions. 

Sukuna’s patience, it seemed, had reached its limit. “Enough of your sweet worship, little moth.” With a low growl of carnal need, he drew you away from his manhood. One of his powerful hands threaded through your hair as he guided you back against the silken cradle of the web.

“I would feel your cunt now.” He dragged his length slowly down the centre of your body, tracing a sweltering path between your breasts, over the plane of your belly, until the head nestled against the slick seam of your sex. “What is your name?” 

“What?” 

“You haven’t given me your name.” 

“Why does it matter?” you breathed. “This will be but once an ephemeral indulgence spun between us. Thereafter, we need never see each other again.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a smirk, his multiple eyes glowing with amusement as he dominated you, fangs glinting like lustrous obsidian. “I am about to mate with you, little moth,” he said. “A union of this criterion deserves the courtesy of a name I can speak against your throat while I claim every inch of you.”

You met his gaze with a short-winded laugh. “Spiders do not mate for life, in any case. Their dances are brief, driven by instinct and nothing more.”

“Good thing I am only half a spider, then.”

You swallowed hard, the web nestling you like a lover’s embrace while his existence consumed every sense. If a name was the final thread he required before he buried himself inside you, then you would surrender it. “Then know me as Y/N.”

“Y/N . . .” The name rolled from his tongue like a dark incantation. Two arms wrapped firmly around your waist, drawing you flush against him, while the other two caged you in. “Well, Y/N. Would you do me the honour of consuming me once I’ve ruined this lovely cunt?” You clutched at those powerful arms, fingers digging into the corded muscle and tattooed skin, heart thrashing like a caged bird. “After all, female spiders are rather famous for devouring their mates.”

Your eyes met his—a quartet of scarlet depths burning with hunger—and gave the sharpest nod.

That was all the consent he required.

In one tumultuous thrust, he drove forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in a single, inexorable motion. The stretch was an instantaneous and overwhelming burn that tore a scream from your throat. The sound echoed upward through the cavern and out into the forbidden woods, startling a flock of birds into flight.

Tears spilled down your cheeks, born of stupefaction and the fullness that bordered on discomfort. Sukuna stilled at once, buried impossibly deep, as two clawed thumbs brushed the tears away. 

“Easy, little moth,” he soothed. “Breathe for me.” He began to move then, withdrawing only to press forward again in long strokes that dragged those ridges along your inner walls. The burn relieved by degrees, replaced by molten pleasure that made your toes curl. 

One set of hands returned to your breasts, pinching your nipples. “This tight valley of yours is already becoming a river for me, is it not? Embracing my cock, milking every ridge as though it were made to be filled by a creature. Gods, I shall ruin you for any mortal man who might dare come after.”

Your head fell back against the web, a chorus of moans slipping from your lips. And with every thrust, you felt yourself opening further, surrendering more completely to the critter who had claimed you wholly. 

Sukuna’s pace quickened, his strong hips snapping forward with greater and greater urgency. Each thrust drove deeper, harder, the bumps along his cock dragging against you with friction as he rutted into your cunt like a beast possessed.

A hand pressed against your lower abdomen. “Do you feel that, my sweet moth?” His baritone dripped with dark delight. “Look how my cock contours the very shape of your belly from within. I am stretching this cunt so wide it bears the imprint of me alone.” He angled his hips and slammed forward with particular brutality, the crown breaching the entrance to your womb itself. 

Your eyes rolled back into your head, a scream ripping from your throat as religious pleasure consumed you. Drool slipped helplessly from the corner of your parted lips, your mind going blissfully blank while your full breasts bounced wildly. 

Sukuna gathered you up into the cradle of his arms, two locking securely around your waist and back while the others supported your spread thighs. Your own arms flew around his neck, clinging to the muscle as he fucked up into you with unrelenting strength, gravity driving you down onto his immense cock with every upward snap of his hips.

“Please!” you sobbed. “Faster— Agh! Please, give me more. I beg you!”

Sukuna laughed triumphantly, his breath fanning against your ear as he pounded into you without mercy. “I am going to fill you until your womb overflows with my essence, until it takes root deep inside.” His thrusts grew even more savage. “You will swell with my offspring, while these perfect breasts grow heavy with milk for them. I will breed you thoroughly, again and again, until your body forgets any other claim but mine. Would you like that, little moth? To be bred by a creature’s cock?”

Sukuna’s words ignited something feral within you, an unabashed hunger that wrecked your restraint. “Yes— Oh god, yes! I want it.”

Sukuna’s four eyes flashed, a barbaric grin splitting his lips. “Then it is what you shall receive.” 

For the next hour, he claimed you without respite, as he turned you from one position to the next with effortless strength.

His long tongue invaded your mouth in a sloppy, devouring kiss. The muscle stirred against yours, then pushed deeper, shoving down your throat until you gagged wetly around it. All the while, his knot began to swell at the base of his cock, locking him inside your cunt. 

He flipped you, turning you onto your knees with your buttocks raised high, face pressed into the strands. Two of his arms gripped your hips, the other two on either side of your head as he mounted you from behind. Your breasts swayed heavily beneath you with every thrust, and still he never withdrew, the knot chafing against your sweet spot until you were screaming his name.

He hauled you upright, pressing your back to his chest. Powerful arms hooked beneath your knees, spreading your legs pervertedly wide while the others enveloped around your waist. Suspended in the air, you could only cling to his neck and wail as he drove up into you. The knot was fully ballooned now, ensuring not a single drop of his seed could escape.

By the time he had softened, you were boneless, trembling, your mind still floating somewhere between the stars and the grotto. Sukuna gathered you close at once with such benevolence that belied the creature who had just bred you. Palms cradled your back and waist, and stroked damp strands of hair from your cheek. The last traced soothing circles along the curve of your belly—rounded from the volume of his essence he had pumped into your womb.

“Easy now, my brave moth,” he murmured, tucking a strand of her hair behind your ear. “You were magnificent. Rest upon me, love. Let me tend to you as you deserve.”

From the very strands of the web itself, he drew fresh silk and began to weave. In moments, he had fashioned for you a short wrap dress of the finest, most airy spider-silk, light as chiffon yet modestly concealing. It draped across your shoulders and bosom, crossing at the front in a simple, elegant knot that left your legs bare to mid-thigh. It felt like wearing a cloud with his scent. 

He settled you atop him then, guiding you to lie fully upon the spectrum of his chest. Your legs draped over his lower spider limbs, your cheek pressed to the beat of his heart, arms circling his neck as though you could not bear even an inch of separation. His hands rested possessively upon the small of your back, stroking the length of your spine.

You sighed, nuzzling closer into the heat of his skin. “You are a miserable, miserable creature,” you whispered, voice hoarse from screams and gagging and endless pleas. But that smile never left your face. “Sukuna Ryomen.” 

He pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your temple, then another to the bridge of your nose. “Do you feel satisfied with the promise I planted there, little moth?”

Your core clenched from the question, but it was soothed at once by his hands caressing your back. “Satisfied . . . and wonderfully sore,” you admitted, pressing a soft kiss to the centre of his chest. “I fear I shall ache for days, and yet I find I do not mind it in the slightest.”

“Good.” He cradled you more securely against him. “For I mean to keep you here, cocooned in my web and my arms, until the woods themselves forget you were ever anything but mine.” 

[indom-itus]

When Arrows Fly | Ryomen Sukuna

Summary: To pursue a marriage with the mysterious Northern princess, demigod and tribal Chief Ryomen Sukuna must meet the conditions for her hand, which is to acquire the head of her father's rival, but things aren't as easy as he thought. Inspired by Filipino folklore and (actual) indigenous traditions

Tags: demigod!Sukuna x warrior princess!reader; mythology au, folklore au, TRUEFORM SUKUNA, enemies-to-lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, meet ugly, canon-typical violence (Sukuna), tension, opposite attract, may contain minor in accuracies (headhunting practices cus limited literature) tw: mentions of violence, murder and cannibalism.

Word Count: 1.3k

Producer's Notes: Finals are upon me, so it's really busy, lots of scheduled posts are lined up, and do accept this work that has been simmering from my drafts for some time. Fun Fact: Headhunting is an actual practice in indigenous communities in Borneo, Southeast Asia, Pacific Islands, even Taiwan, China and Japan, but at least here (Philippines), it got banned when the Americans came.

Daylist | Divider Credits: @uzmacchiato | Taglist: OPEN ⊹˚♬₊⋆

The rustle of leaves follows him with every step he takes as the moonlight guides Sukuna’s deliberate steps to his destination, while the evening breeze, hot and humid, licks against his skin. 

The golden amulet rested against his chest, a faint gleam when it caught the gentle light of the moon, while Sukuna was reminded of the sweltering heat–a familiar sensation whenever he travelled back from distant lands, several heads tucked under his two sets of arms. 

That was until the whispers reached his tribe about a Northern princess, a woman of age, who was anything but ordinary, whose beauty and wit were spoken in hushed reverence. 

No one ever saw her in the flesh. 

Not one, yet it didn’t stop men travelling far and wide to pursue her hand. 

Her dowry was simple: gold, plots of land, and the Southern Chief’s head—her father’s longtime rival. 

Yet, as simple as it was, each man failed. Injured, if they were lucky enough to escape and live to tell the tale. 

When the whispers reached Sukuna’s tribe, he made no hesitation to pursue such a challenge. Upon hearing his conquest, the tribe wasted no time in offering prayers, along with the fattest chickens as offerings to the Gods.

The village elder placed an amulet over his head: a golden medallion with a carving of an arrow, a relic of their God of Hunt. “When heads roll, an arrow is shot. You shall meet she.”

“Indeed, heads will roll,” He scoffed before standing up straighter. “But it certainly won’t be mine.”

Sukuna does not need such things. He was, if not a skilled hunter, with swirls of dark ink etched on most of his exposed skin as a testament to each head he acquired since boyhood. 

His divine lineage from the God of Hunt was already a seal that ensured his victory.

Sukuna stopped in his tracks, using his first set of arms to uncover several overgrown stalks, to reveal distant plots of land, then saw a cloud of smoke coming from below. 

The Southern Tribe. 

They were celebrating a feast, hearing the distant melodies of brass and strings, along with encantation that was bustling with life and high spirits.

His eyes glanced down at the axe attached to his hip, licking his lips before he grinned, one with too many teeth, slowly stalking along the thick trees to approach the unsuspecting village.

Daybreak has come. 

Sukuna’s body was bathed in thick crimson, warmth running across his skin. His axe was in one hand, while he cradled the head of the deceased Southern Chief on his other arm, wrapped in cloth. 

He sinks his teeth into the heart, blood trickling down his chin without any care as he recalls the horror behind the deceased Chief’s irises before he tore his heart from his chest with ease. 

From a distance, he sees the familiar arc of your village, then his ears perked up upon hearing a faint rustle. 

All of Sukuna’s set of eyes narrowed, surveying his surroundings to see any signs of movement, while clutching the wrapped head in his arm. 

He raised his axe in defence. “Show yourself,” 

Silence. 

The whistle of the Northern breeze was cold and crisp; leaves rustled along 

“Fool, do you know who you’re ambushing?” He threatened, teeth bared.

Silence once more.

His ears picked up on the sound of something shattering, and then he felt a sharp pain in his chest. 

Looking down, he saw the golden amulet—the one meant to protect him—that used to sit against his sternum, gone and broken, only replaced by a wooden arrow lodged on his chest. Blood trickled thick on his chest, mixing with his earlier victims. 

Sukuna growled, using one of his arms to remove the arrow, until he felt something akin to a needle pressed against his neck. 

“You rat-” He cursed, pulling the mysterious object, only to see a familiar, smaller arrow in between his thick fingers.

Poison.

Sukuna fell to his knees, his grip around the axe loosening, while his body fell with a loud thud against the earth as his other arms scrambled to keep him upright.

His vision had already started to blur, yet he helplessly watched the wrapped head roll along the ground with gritted teeth. 

A foot with gold bangles wrapped around the ankle stops it from rolling further.

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his sets of eyes looking up to see who the pesky rat was who dared to attack him, but his heart ceased. Standing before him was a woman adorned in gold from head to toe, inked patterns decorating her skin, while her quiver and bow hung on her back with effortless grace.

Despite her regalness, her lips curled into a snarl, while she pressed the jagged end of her spear against his neck. He felt the coldness of the blade sit against his lump on his throat, which only made his lips curve into a smirk. 

“A goddess has graced-” He breathed, his eyes half-lidded, when he picked up on the sound of your sharp inhale.

His amusement was short-lived, his eyes widening when he felt the sudden shift of your hand, followed by the heavy weight plunging into his throat without any warning, and then blood gushed from the deep wound.  

Before darkness slowly consumed him, Sukuna remembered a goddess bathed in the daybreak’s halo as the last vision etched in his mind before he faded. 

His sets of eyes flickered slowly, vision hazy, until it was clear enough to see a young woman, a few years younger than his companion, Uraume, crouched as she tended to the scarring on his chest.

She glanced at him, flinching when she saw sets of red irises that were narrowed toward her. Without any haste, she rushed out of the room, only to be followed by an elderly man in his chief garments shortly.

The Northern Chief. 

“You’ve succeeded in your conquest, Ryomen,” The Chief nodded. Despite his stern expression, he seemed too pleased. “Not many lived to tell the tale, but your strength is commendable after all.” 

Sukuna slowly sat up, grunting in pain. “I trust you have received my other gifts?”

“My daughter should be back by now.” The older man nodded, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The shuffling of footsteps was heard against the wooden floorboards, making the Northern Chief and Sukuna perk up, then an inked hand drew the beaded curtains.

The demigod darted his eyes, his lips curving into a knowing smile when he recognised the woman who entered the room. 

The clinking of gold jewellery and a quiver was unmistakable. 

You greeted, wiping the dried blood against your cheek. “I am back, Father.” 

“Just in time!” The Chief clapped, a hand behind her back, before leading you in front of Sukuna, who was still seated on the cot. “Daughter, meet your husband.” 

Sukuna followed your figure, shoulders shaking when he saw a sigh escape your lips, until you met his gaze, seeing his enormous stature, while his chin rested against one of his palms. 

Your eyes narrowed, and the end of your lips curved slightly. “The warrior from the forest.” 

“Not exactly the warm welcome I expected from my wife.” He chuckled, tilting his head to look at you properly. “The whispers don’t do you justice, for you are certainly a vision.”

You crossed your arms, “And your reputation precedes you.” 

Sukuna barked out in unrestrained laughter, amused at your sharp retort, then he extended one of his arms in your direction, offering his palm, which earned him a raised brow from you. 

With an exasperated eyeroll, you placed your hand on his palm, which he placed against the outline of his jaw. He leaned against the warmth, feeling the softness and calluses from the pads of your fingers before he cracked one eye open to see you once more.

ᯓ‎𝄞 ˎˊ˗ Sukuna / JJK Taglist: @ihatemynewbangs @outpostsworld @liahcharms All rights reserved, indom-itus.