In sickness and in health, Geto Suguru has promised, while tying your lives together. And thus, when death looms over his dearest wife, he's ready to trick it.
ËáŻœ ĘË pairing: ê° Geto Suguru x Reader ê±
ËáŻœ ĘË content & warnings: ê° Inspired by the "Hamnet" movie and this one fuckass scene :: set in 17th century :: marriage :: fluff : HEAVY angst :: devotion :: sacrifice :: character's death :: family :: domestic life ê±
ËáŻœ ĘË words: 3k
ËáŻœ ĘË notes: I do recommend reading it while listening to this song.
Suguru Geto has long forgotten the times when he didn't love you.
As he loved you always.
In the morning and afternoon. Springs, summers, and autumns, when the leaves turned yellow and clung to the cold windows of your cottage.
In the restless winter night, with your body close nuzzled into his, the biting wind seeping through the loose window shells.
He has loved you ever since you poured cold water on his yearning face one summer morning while he waited beneath your cottage. Dressed in his best creamy shirt, holding a bouquet of wildflowers tightly in his hand, with long hair flowing down his straight back.
A poet from a nearby village, seeing you every single day.
Seeing, as if solely from afar, inaccessible, rather wickedly beseeching, as he couldn't even truly touch you. Or talk to you, cherish the flowery scent carried on your skin.
He was neither rich nor poor, yet his heart was swollen with wickedness, cherishing a tenderness that seeped through his marrow. A feeling of the most cursed towards the only woman who hated him dearly.
A teacher, a witch, who'd rather spend her days schooling young birdies in magic and the tricks of nature than seek a husband!
A disgrace, truly, yet what could her poor folks do, since she didn't wish to marry any handsome gentleman from their village? How could they force their dearest daughter to marry any commoner, when none of them was worthy of her beauty?
And yet, Suguru Geto offered himself.
But for a reason that truly baffled everyone, you seemed to detest him. Cursing and turning your back on his kind of flirt whenever he tried to talk to you. Again and again, every single day, only to be met with a bucket of cold water you poured on him from your window or a dirty sponge you shot at him through the door of your classroom.
The kids giggled, seeing their beautiful teacher utterly furious at the handsome poet, who seemed bewitched by the gentle wrinkle that bent her forehead. But the way her eyes rolled and shot daggers as he waited and waited under her classroom, trying to take a single glance at the softness that bent her lips.
"He's just a silly poet. How could I ever take him seriously?" you muttered once during a conversation with your mother.
She glanced out the window of your cottage, seeing his dark locks glisten beneath the sizzling burns of the afternoon sun.
"But his heart seems kind." Her eyes turned back to look at your sweet yet tired face. "You deserve kindness."
"Kindness won't feed us," you muttered quietly, as you raised your gaze for a second.
Only to steal a glimpse of a man who didn't wish to leave you alone. Of his lavender eyes staring somewhere above the rolling hills of your village, fingers idling with a tall glass, bowing beneath the gentle, warm wind. His long hair, tied in a small bun at the top, shining like silk, as if threaded from the richest fabrics you've only read of in tales.
He's been haunting you for weeks now.
From the moment your paths crossed in the village next door, where you walked through the stalls and he sat leisurely in the local tavern, with papers and inks filling his bag. With lavender eyes that somehow caught your gaze, soft, with laughter from the past still twinkling behind your irises, before you quickly turned away.
He'd never packed up quicker, stuffing his bag without a care for his rather expensive things, before leaving the tavern in a hurry. To catch the last glimpse of an angel whose eyes had kissed his cheeks, before she would disappear forever.
He followed you all the way back to your village, eyeing the little footprints your feet left on the sand, the flowery scent clinging to your body and swirling in the air. As if showing him the way to the woman who seemed to bewitch his mind, body and soul with nothing but a single look into the poet's eyes.
And as he arrived beneath your cottage, a muffled, rather angry scoff escaped your lips. Seeing a strange man who seemed to walk behind you, in silence and holding his breath, all this time.
"What are you doing here?" Your brows furrowed, wild hair sticking softly to the warm cheeks. "How dare you follow me like a madman?"
But Suguru⊠Suguru couldn't even catch his breath.
Oh, how damned he already was, upon sensing his heart fall into the agonising clutches of a feeling so wicked!
"Iâ" The words could barely slip past his tightened throat. Almond-shaped eyes, oogling your face, twisted in wrath yet still looking utterly lovely. "I just thought you were beautiful."
You scoffed again, forcing another squeeze of his heart. "Leave. We're done here."
His fists clenched as he saw your body already turning towards the cottage. "Wait! Can you⊠do you wish to go out with me?"
Looking over your shoulder, you eyed his figure. Fingers painted black, a white shirt clinging neatly to his well-built back. Black trousers, rather simple, threaded here and there as if he had seen thread and needle too many times.
A poet.
A man of heavy words yet light pouch.
Someone you shouldn't even look at, even if you were an outcast yourself.
A witch, a weird lady who spent too much time in the woods, talking to trees, grasses, and animals, while teaching apothecary to local children.
Someone whom normal men avoided crossing paths with, as if in fear of even associating with a woman of your sort.
Utterly beautiful, yet of a wicked cheek.
"No," wasn't enough to force him away.
As it seemed, Suguru Geto was foolish enough to even beg and wait for a single glimpse of the softness that beamed from your eyes in the early mornings, just before your gaze caught his figure lingering beneath your windows.
He visited you every day, following you from sunrise until moonlight spilt its kisses on your lovely face. He sat beneath the window of your little classroom, a small house built on a hill, and scribbled his own poems. With a little ink he had brought from home, his forehead beading with sweat as he listened to your classes.
To the lovely voice that carried through the lush plains of the rolling hills, seeping into the creeks that ran past the scattered huts. The peaceful, almost idyllic view stretched before his eyes each day, yet he still seemed utterly lost in the softness of your hands on his skin.
After long weeks of tiresome begging, you've finally agreed.
Catching him once again asleep in the tall grasses by your classroom, a golden spill of sunshine casting a peaceful look on his handsome face.
And so, carried by an unknown, wicked feeling, you squatted next to him, with the edges of your dress brushing his body and your fingers reaching to push away a single raven lock stuck to his forehead.
Lavender eyes slowly opened, as if doubting whether the petal touch was real or just a projection of his lovestruck mind.
"I agree," you said, a soft sigh pushed past your lips. "One meeting."
He nodded, quickly, eagerly, already rising to his feet. "Just one."
"And if I still dislike you, that shall be it."
He didn't nod this time, and so you pinched his cheek gently. "Say it."
He chuckled, nuzzling into your softness. "And if you do not like me, I shall leave you alone."
Yet, as it soon would turn out â hating him was rather impossible.
After a year, you already gave birth to your first child.
Oh well, a woman in love can be quite wicked, but a man? Dear heavens. As soon as you agreed to his pleading to become his wife, Suguru Geto didn't hesitate to ensnare you with his deceitful feelings.
And you, utterly captivated by a foolish poet who sang of his beloved's sweetest smiles, couldn't deny the burning fire deep within you. The sensation of his skin against yours in the most intimate manner stirred your desire. To cherish him and be cherished in whispers, touches, and moans that escaped your lips as you hid atop your cottage roof while your parents were absent.
When he promised you forever, during the wedding vows, you knew he meant it.
Suguru Geto's life began only after meeting you. Everything that happened during the past twenty-five years of his life seemed to be nothing but a bleak, barren nothingness that filled his wretched soul.
Soon after the wedding, you moved to another cottage. Small and lovely, where your first child was born. A girl with the sweetest cheeks and rich, lavender eyes that mirrored the kindness your husband had shown.
His precious little daughter.
"And my precious, beautiful wife," he always added, while kissing both of your foreheads. "The lights of my life."
You would giggle before wrapping your arms around his back and drawing him into a longer kiss. You stood in the middle of your little, simple cottage, with candles scattered across the shelves and his ink-stained fingers smudged on your cheeks.
"Aren't you a flirt?" A sweet laugh spilt from his throat as he stole another kiss.
And another, another, another, which forced you to tumble onto the soft bed. The fog clung to the windows; the candles' warmth cast shadows over his handsome cheeks, hair spilling over his shoulders.
Your breath hitched as his lips wrapped around the sensitive point beneath your neck.
"You play a dangerous game," fell quietly, and he chuckled.
"And why is that, my dearest wife?"
His lavender eyes met yours. Love and fondness merged as he brushed away a few strands of hair that had fallen over your forehead.
"Because I may ask you for another baby."
He raised his eyebrows before curving them into a soft scowl. "You don't have to ask me twice for anything, my love. And especially for this particular thing."
And so, oh well.
Another year had passed, and you gave birth once again.
This time, to the sweetest boy, with the cheekiness of yours bubbling in his eyes and a big heart always yearning for his mother.
The life you had was almost idyllic, as if brought straight from one of the tales you always read to your kids. A life of profound serenity, filled with overwhelming love that spilt past your husband's fingers.
He seemed to carry your whole family, and even though he soon started travelling a lot â for he wished to chase his playwright dreams â there was never a time when you felt anything but taken care of.
Suguru wished it stayed that way.
A picture of you, humming the loveliest melody to your two children, strolling through the long plains of wildflowers as the sun kissed your cheeks. The picture that seemed to be stuck in his mind, the one he repeated over and over again as he went off to the big cities to earn a few more pennies.
Whenever the horse took longer than it should, or the carriage rolled over the bumps and mounds, he thought of you. Of the view that would welcome him home.
Of his children growing up healthy and his wife staying the wicked witch she always had been. Filling their kitchen with herbs of sorts unknown to him, yet carrying a special healing might. He would think of the lavender fragrance filling the kitchen and the mint bubbling on the stove. Of the cinnamon, ginger and cloves that, during the winter, carried all four of you through the freezing bites.
Your hands had healing power, your mind stayed sharp and kind, always aware of what to do in case of a sudden crisis, be it your daughter's sudden cold or your son's scratched knee.
Sometimes it was Suguru himself, lying beneath the heavy pillows and blankets, as if already half on the other side. At times like this, he would, in a rather melodramatic way, recite poems about the approaching end and stretch his hand towards you, as if mimicking death.
The children would always laugh sweetly, seeing their father utterly lost in his need to catch a glimpse of their mother's attention. Because they knew, oh, of course they knew, that love was hidden in their mother's purest smile and in the way their father seemed to live solely to hear her sweet laughter.
They saw the way their father looked into their mother's kind eyes. With affection difficult to describe, they only began to understand its true heaviness after they reached the age of six.
They knew that no one loved their mother as much as he did. No matter how often Suguru kissed their plump cheeks, it was with only half the devotion he showed their mother. He loved them, of course he did! For it was simply impossible for any other child to be loved by their father as much as Suguru loved his.
And yet, both of them knew that whatever it was between their parents felt most sacred.
Thus, when their mother fell heavily sick, it seeped through every soul living beneath their warm roof.
It happened one day, as you collapsed in the garden. Suddenly, falling straight into your slowly growing herbs, before the panicked children called for their father with tears swirling in their eyes.
He brought you back home with trembling hands, quickly lying you down on your bed by the fireplace. To let the flame give a bit of warmth to your cheeks, as he saw the life slowly slipping away, with sweat beading on your forehead.
The doctors said it's a simple cold. Nothing serious.
But the days were passing, and it seemed you were getting worse. Barely able to eat even the lightest food, turning from side to side beneath the heavy covers.
The fever clung to your forehead no matter how many times Suguru tried to fight it. He placed cold compresses on your forehead and kissed your temple. As if it could heal whatever sickness was plaguing your poor body.
He saw you grow weaker day by day. Sometimes, the strength would return to your body, only to leave it completely before you could walk to the front door.
Sometimes you laughed with your children, only to start coughing blood a minute later.
Suguru was slowly losing his mind, spiralling into madness, as he called for every doctor available in the village. Yet no one knew what sickness was holding onto his wife's dearest life.
He would lie by your side every single night, just to listen to your whistling breath. Watch the way your lips fell open and your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He would stay all night, just to make sure it wouldn't be the last.
Hand plastered to your cheek, though you could barely register his touch. His voice, soft, almost teary, sounded muffled within your sickness-spiked mind.
He prayed. Long and as never before, clinging to your body, just to feel the warmth of your breath on your skin.
He prayed for death to take him instead, to leave his dearest wife alone, as he was ready to bear all the pain she needed to endure.
He prayed in a pitiful voice that sliced his children's hearts as they saw their father in such a wretched state. And so they gave him time to grieve, alone, watching their mother's soul slowly wither away.
But then⊠then another night came.
Much worse than any other. As Suguru could barely feel your puffs on his fingers. A shallow, almost invisible breath slipped past your lips, and the smell of death swirled in the room. Fogging the windows, seeping with sickness and stealth, as Suguru felt the grim reaper's clutches slowly wrap around your body.
He could see it in the dim corner of the bedroom, staring at your sweat-beaded forehead.
"No," he mumbled, covering you both with a heavy blanket. "I won't let it take you away."
And so he did something foolish.
Beneath the veil of darkness, with material tightly covering your bodies, he changed your positions. Slowly, so death could not notice your body moving to the other side.
A soft cough escaped your throat, and your eyes opened for a moment, seeing your husband's gentle smile.
"Suguru," you muttered. "Iâ"
"Shh," he whispered, brushing your cheek. "It's okay, darling. It won't hurt any more. It's okay."
And because your husband he was â you believed him. Falling back into the light dream, where the world spun around nothing but the gentle, caring voice of your dearest one.
"I give you my life," Suguru whispered, yet it seemed you were long gone. "I give you my life, darling. For I cannot live in a world without your warmth." His thumb brushed the softness of your skin. "For I love our children so much, and yet my wretched heart forbids me to live without you by my side. You are much kinder than I am, darling, and shall take care of them for both of us."
As if losing you would damn him and nothing but the embrace of death itself would ever heal his woeful soul.
It was too dark to see anything, yet beneath the heavy blanket, Suguru could feel a slight warmth returning to your fallen lips. He smiled, sensing a fogginess creeping into his mind. The clutches cold and dreary, seeping through the marrow.
"I give you my life," he repeated, the heaviness pressing on his eyelids. "Be brave. Be kind. And please, don't ever stop laughing. For I'll be watching over you all and make sure none of you joins my side any time soon. I will love you, always, and I shall exist only in a world with two of us."
"For we are of one soul and one heart, thus no hills nor seas and mountains shall ever keep us apart."
And his children, listening to their father's crying whispers, knew that a man in love is truly of a wicked kind.
He was the one who deceived death to grant you a new life.
tags:Emperor of Sparta!ryomen sukunaĂEmpress of Sparta!reader. angst. establishing a relationship. married. depiction of death and violence. death of the main characters.
!I don't claim historical accuracy; everything described in the text was merely inspired by that era and its aesthetic. I had no intention of offending anyone's beliefs!
wordcount: 1.5k / english is not my first language
This legend was passed down from mouth to mouth in a time when thunder still had a name, the sea had grandchildren, and the summit of Olympus was regarded as the greatest of all human wonders.When Sparta was still the heart of strength and brutal grandeur, its dawns began with the clash of swords and its nights with prayers to the gods of war. There, boys were taught to die before they learned to love, and men were honoured only when their hands were stained with the blood of their enemies. The people of that empire lived by discipline, conquest, and pride in their name.
Young men, dressed in red satin, covered every inch of your skin with kisses â your fingers, hands, neck, and legs. Before you stood a low gilded table laden with the lavish riches of the metropolis: figs, rye bread, wine, pomegranates, olives, goatâs cheese, and almonds soaked in honey. A musician with gilded fingernails played a solemn symphony upon the harp. Somewhere in the garden, marble fountains echoed the sound of the sea.
âWell, why are you so sad, my sun-faced empress?â asked one of the young men, brushing your hair aside. âShouldnât you be overflowing with pride and joy? Your husband is returning home alive â victorious once more, having conquered another part of the world in honour of your name.â
You remained silent. You were under no obligation to justify yourself to anyone â not to them, not even to him. You merely took a small sip from your cup.
âYes, he is the absolute victor, your victor, my generous empress. Have you not heard that he has named the main temple of that barbarian empire after you? And that he ordered your name to be engraved upon the statue of their goddess of fertility, happiness, and beauty?â
At this, you simply turned your head away and gazed toward another constellation. The third young man began kissing your calf adorned with a golden chain.
âIf thoughts of our emperor cannot earn us your smile, then perhaps you will bestow it upon us instead, my empress?â
At that moment, the sound of heavy metal echoed through the hall, as though a silver needle had fallen upon a mirror in an empty room.
A rough voice, like thunder, boomed from behind you.
âBegone.â
You did not even blink. Unlike the servants â and especially the young men â who immediately scattered away from you.
âCan you not even pretend to be a faithful wife on the very day of my return to the capital?â
You picked up a grape between your fingers.
âYou always said honesty and purity suited my face better.â
âThat is only when you are lying beneath me with your legs spread apart.â
Heavy footsteps approached from behind.
âThe entire nation greeted me in the capital square, yet you did not even step onto the palace balcony. How am I supposed to understand that?â
âI did not wish to see you covered in dust and sweat after your journey.â
âI was washed and dressed in gold, woman.â
âThen invent another excuse for my absence.â
You suddenly felt the hair at the nape of your neck seized tightly in a fist and pulled back. Above you appeared two crimson eyes blazing like fresh lava.
âStand up.â
It was the emperorâs command â one that would have made anyone else rise instantly. But not you.
The fist tightened in your hair as the man leaned closer.
âI have sent thousands to their deaths, won a war that will be remembered for centuries, changed the faith of entire generations, and returned alive. And all I receive from you is indifference? Then you have forgotten what kind of man I am, my wife.â
âIt is not indifference, Sukuna,â you replied calmly, placing another grape into your mouth. âIt is peaceful joy at your safe return.â
Sukuna released your hair.
âAh⊠tsk. Women. And to think I chose a wife with such a sharp tongue.â
He rested his spear against the marble wall and began removing his bronze armour.
âYou knew exactly what you were getting into.â
âYes. Though I never imagined that innocent little girl would grow into such a bitch.â
You raised an eyebrow and glanced at him over your shoulder.
âWho exactly are you calling a bitch, Sukuna?â
The man exhaled heavily.
âA woman who knows her own worth.â
You chuckled softly, dipped a piece of bread into the wine, and ate.
âWhy did you summon these brats here? You promised your little entertainments would happen only once a week, yet Iâve been told this is already the fourth time.â
âI simply need background noise in the form of naĂŻve teenage dreams.â
Sukuna snorted quietly beside your ear.
âOf course you do.â
At last, you turned to examine his face in the moonlight. His skin was darker than the last time you had seen him. The small scars along his jaw had reopened, and there were new lines upon his face â marks of fatigue, stress, and longing. Smiling lazily, you brushed your fingers through his hair. Sukuna drained an entire cup of wine in one gulp and let out a thoroughly uncivilised burp.
âWhat? Nothing I did on this bloody expedition impressed you at all?â
âIt did,â you replied with a sly smile. âYou came back alive.â
âDo not get your hopes up. You will not be rid of me so easily.â
Silence settled between you, broken only by the distant cries of birds.
âYou are leaving for another campaign in five months.â
âDo not start. I have only just returned.â
You lowered your gaze to the hem of your tunic.
âStay in the capital for at least a year,â you whispered.
Sukuna stopped eating and stared at the floor.
âThe empire is already thriving. It takes more than a month to ride from the northern border to the southern one. A third of the civilised world speaks our language. Our empire is a model of perfection to others. What more do you want? Why? You once told me I was your world. Well, here I am before you â already conquered by you. Why do you need another world? And do not tell me again that it is all for my safety.â
Silence.
âDo you want me to be Pythia* for a moment, donât you?â you murmured. âYou will not answer me now. Instead, you will throw me over your shoulder, carry me to our bedchamber, and fuck me until morning. As always.â
Sukuna nodded and rose to his feet.
âGo to the bedchamber. Undress. I will join you in half an hour.â
That night, you experienced a catharsis so profound that not even Ares himself could have granted such ecstasy to Aphrodite. Yet even that could not prevent the tears that came with the early morning.
During Emperor Sukunaâs so-called campaign, the sun-faced Empress of Sparta was murdered by a member of a secret cult. Her funeral was held without waiting for the Emperorâs return. Her body was carried through the centre of the capital upon a high pedestal adorned with flowers and gold.
Rumours spread among the people that the Empress was half-goddess and that her blood possessed the power to bestow youth. Maddened by desperation and superstition, the crowd seized her body and tore it apart, leaving not even a single strand of hair behind.
The news did not reach the Emperor until an entire winter had passed. They say his cry of grief echoed all the way to the realm of Hades itself. He abandoned his army and rushed back to the capital. During that journey, he slew ten monsters sent against him by the Olympian gods, and those victories became legends of their own.
When the Emperor finally returned to the palace, he ran through its corridors and chambers as though fire burned beneath his feet. Yet nowhere could he find his beloved. A black and unbearable agony began devouring him from within. In his madness, he ordered the entire world to be burned. His loyal commanders decided to wait until morning, hoping the Emperorâs fury would cool.
But when dawn came and the doors to his study were opened, the Emperor himself was gone. Only by evening was his body discovered within the temple built in honour of his one and only love. Beside the main statue lay the Emperorâs corpse, cold and motionless, with a gaping wound carved into his chest â and his heart resting beside him.
For there was no light, no world left for him in a life where his little patroness no longer existed. Wine had turned to swamp water; the melody of the harp became nothing more than the clash of swords. His name meant nothing if it was no longer spoken by her lips. Though Cupidâs arrow brings love, an arrow remains an arrow â and it still pierces the heart.
Thus died the last Emperor of Sparta. After his death, no ruler managed to hold power for long, and civil wars consumed the empire. Sparta weakened, and it was never again as majestic as it had once been.
Take me away. Donât make me the lover waiting by the door. All I do is scratch at your door
*Pythia was a prophetess and priestess of Apollo at Delphi.
Yeah, yeah, I know that the political system in Sparta was completely different, but I changed it to make it a little more romantic. I hope youâll forgive me for this little liberty. In any case, thanks for reading. And yes, Iâm a little behind on the deadline I promised
The master list was ready last year, but I donât know why I didnât post it. And yes, I do have something about Sukuna/ Iâll probably post it towards the end of the week, once the university lets me off
Welcome to my page! If you've clicked on this tab, it means you're definitely interested in my art (which makes me very happy).
My name is Katri. It's not short for Catrice or anything else. It's a nickname my grandmother gave me. I think it's very cute.
English is not my native language. Even after several rounds of editing, there may still be mistakes. Please let me know if you find any!
I don't even remember why I started writing. My ideas come out of thin air. But it's hard for me to implement them because I don't have much free time. However, every time I finish a piece of work, I experience an incredible burst of endorphins.
If I had to describe my vibe, it would be âa tired medical student who wants to sleep and relaxâ haha
Music: I'm an absolute music lover. ABBA, ADO, BABYMETAL, blackpink, I Monster, Lana Del Rey, Mozart, Nirvana, Queen, Tame Impala, Tchaikovsky, The Skallywags, videoclub, Vivaldi, and many movie soundtracks.
Movies: Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass,
Coraline, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, (Timothy Burton), Cracks (Jordan Scott), The Riot Club (Lone Scherfig), Kingdom of Heaven, Gladiator and 2 (Ridley Scott), The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc (Luc Besson), The Handmaiden (Park Chan-wook), Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola)
ĐĐœŃĐŒĐ”: jjk, Bungo Stray Dogs, Shingeki no Kyojin, 91 Days, Moriarty the Patriot, The Millionaire Detective Balance: Unlimited
Books: Beyond Pain (Turyansky), The Plague (Camus), Agatha Christie, The Magus (John Fowles), The Magic Mountain (Thomas Mann), Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky). I love reading mythology and historical anthologies.
Five Awkward Encounters With Your Ex-Husband, Toji Fushiguro
1. The Ballet Recital
Tsumikiâs ballet recital was supposed to be a peaceful family moment: parents politely clapping, kids in tutus, smiles and fun. Of course, the teacher decided parents should sit together. You arrived with Megumi, only to find Toji already there â early, somehow and sitting dead center in the row. When you asked if Megumi could sit in the middle, Toji just smirked and refused to move. His manspreading was ridiculous, taking up half your space, and his leg kept accidentally brushing against yours. You could practically feel his smug grin every time you flinched.
2. The Tinder Incident
When Toji came to pick up the kids for his week, he left his phone unlocked on your kitchen counter while grabbing their bags. You didnât mean to snoop but curiosity won. One tap later, and you were staring at his Tinder profile: shirtless mirror selfies, gym flexes, and a suspiciously cute dog photo (whose dog?). It was the ultimate douchebag lineup. You were still mid-eye-roll when his voice came from behind you:
âLooking for something, sweetheart?â
You nearly dropped his phone. He leaned against the doorway, smirking. You could have died of embarrassment on the spot.
3. The Pajama Incident
You were half-asleep when Toji showed up early to drop the kids off. You shuffled to the door, hair a mess, eyes barely open and there he was, coffee in hand, looking far too amused.
âNice shirt,â he said with a damn wink.
You blinked down and realized it was one of his old shirts. It hung loose on you like a dress.
âYou miss me that much?â he added, cocky as ever, before walking away like he hadnât just ruined your morning.
4. The Plumber Situation
The sink had been leaking for days, so you finally called a plumber. Simple enough until Toji decided to âdrop by.â Five minutes later, he was telling the poor guy to pack it up because he could fix it himself. You were mortified, apologizing to the plumber as Toji grabbed a wrench and started working like he owned the place. The plumber left looking confused and vaguely afraid, and Toji just shrugged.
âSaved you a service fee,â he said.
You wanted to throw the wrench at him.
5. The Doorstep Disaster
You knocked on Tojiâs apartment door to drop off the kids and a woman answered in nothing but a robe.
You froze.
The kids were right behind you, so you quickly told them to wait downstairs in the lobby before marching in. Toji appeared, looking way too casual for the situation.
âI told you Iâd be here at 3 p.m., and I get here with the kids â and youâve got some floozy answering the door?â you snapped.
The woman tried to talk back, but Toji shut her down fast, voice low and sharp.
âGet your stuff and find your own way home.â
No one could insult his ex-wife (even if she started it).
The door slammed behind her, and the silence that followed was suffocating. You didnât wait long before screaming at him.
âđđ âđđđđđđđđ. after you escape your own thoughts, you return to the courtyard and resume your feast with the others. perhaps your overthinking was justified, when suddenly your world - and simultaneously that of the ryomen sukuna - turns upside down.
tags. true form!ryomen sukuna x concubine!female reader. heian era. angst ((no) comfort). mentions of anxiety, cannibalĂsm, dÄath, detailed gĆre, bloĆd. main character death. open ending. reader gets called 'woman, brat'. part one here! wc. 8.1k
the estate halls stretch silently around you, polished wood gleaming under paper lanterns. your footsteps echo softly on the floorboards, a sharp contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. the heavy silk of your robes drags against your skin with each layer a suffocating reminder of the assembled crowd waiting back for you in the garden.
your heartbeat is loud. too loud.
you walk with hurried steps down the corridor. you just need to get somewhere cool and quiet to calm down. to escape your own thoughts.
the scent of your own perfume - sakura and amber - is now cloying. your hairpins clink faintly with each movement of your head and you curse the weight of them. everything is too much. too tight. too heavy.
you clutch your chest and press your back against the wooden wall once youâre far enough from the courtyard. you try to breathe properly, but your breaths come out in shallow and sharp exhales. you resort to fanning yourself, but none of it seems to help.
your thoughts spiral again; what did that attendant whisper about? why did she look so unsettled? are they planning something? are you truly overthinking it?
you clench your fists against the fabric of your robes. itâs going to be fine; you try to convince yourself. youâve survived worse.
but today it feels different. those smiles the other concubines wore werenât like before. they were tighter. sharper. almost. . . predatory.
âoi, woman.â
that deep voice makes you freeze. you donât need to turn around to know who it is. that deep, gravelly timbre soaked in barely contained fury. the sound of his heavy footsteps follows and you canât help but stiffen before slowly turning your head.
sukuna stands at the end of the hallway, his figure broad and imposing as always. his black and red robes sway around his tall frame like shadows and all four of his eyes burn with something unreadable.
yoy try to speak, but not a word comes out.
sukuna takes his chance and closes the distance with long and purposeful strides. âyou think yâ can walk away from me in front of everyone?â he grits his teeth. his tone is sharp. not really shouting, but itâs enough to make your breath catch.
âi didnât meanââ you begin, but he raises a hand to silence you. you flinch. not because you think heâd put a hand on you out of anger, but simply because youâre just too scared. of everything.
âdid i permit you to leave?â sukuna snarls, his voice low and dangerous. his large hand comes to grab your wrist. his grip is tight enough to make you let out a pathetic whimper. one he enjoys hearing.
you instinctively bow your head. âforgive me, my lord. i was feeling unwell and i just needed a moment.â
the pink-haired man pauses. his expression is unreadable, but his hand moves from your wrist to your chin. large, calloused fingers seize your jaw and force your head up. his crimson eyes rake over your features. theyâre searching, dissecting and calculating.
he doesnât know what to make of it, but he knows that itâs probably one of your humanly emotions - nay, weaknesses â that are messing with you. the tremble of your bottom lip, the glassy shine your eyes hold and the quickened way you breathe reminds him of the countless times youâve been. . . sad? panicked? anxious?
sukuna snaps out of it, clicking his tongue.
âyâ look ill,â he mutters finally, as if stating an inconvenient fact. âyour hands shake,â he continues as his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw slowly. he lets out a huff before concluding his own thoughts. âpathetic. âre you frightened?â
you swallow thickly and force the words past your tightening throat. âi. . . i am just unsettled. nothing more.â
sukunaâs mouth curls faintlyânot in amusement, but disdain. âlies,â he growls and you know youâve messed up.
he hates it when you lie to him, as if he wonât immediately notice. the grip on your chin tightens a fraction before he lets go with a scoff. he towers over you menacingly.
all four arms are folded across his chest, the silk of his robes shifting with the movement. âhumans and yâr pitiful little emotions. always quiverinâ, always tremblinâ. i should rip âem out of you just to silence it all.â
the words sting, but you know better. behind the gruffness, the disgust and coldness lies something he will never admit. you see it in the way his gaze lingers. in the slight crease of his brow.
itâs concern, twisted into anger because that is the only language he knows.
you can only bow deeply again, not wanting to bother him anymore with your own thoughts. âmy apologies, my lord. i meant no deviance.â
sukuna stares down at the top of your head for longer than a moment. he then exhales sharply through his nose. a sound like a growl held back by the thinnest thread, âenough of this nonsense. you will return with me. now.â
thereâs no room for argument. reluctance coils in your belly, but you do as told. you take a deep breath to ready yourself for whatâs to come. you hope itâs just your anxiety spiking again, that youâre simply overthinking. you fall into step behind sukuna as he makes his way back to the courtyard, expecting you to follow. his strides are long and furious, forcing you to hurry up, but you donât stumble.
sukunaâs presence is suffocating but oddly grounding to youâlike being caged by a monster that would kill anyone else who dared to approach you.
. . .
when you and sukuna step back into the courtyard, silence crashes down like a hammer. all eyes dart towards you immediately. you feel uneasy the second you realise you have to be back here.
the concubines, seated with perfect posture at the long table, paste polite concern cross their faces. their fans cover their mouths and their eyes are lowered demurely, though you catch the faint glint of triumph in their stares.
âah, my lady,â one of them says softly with a staged tone. you can sense the strain in her voice as she utters that word. like you didnât deserve to be called a âladyâ.
âwe were sooo worried for you.â
another one chimes in, her voice dripping with honey. âare you unwell? yoy seemed quite⊠sick before you left.â itâs all so fake that you canât help but internally cringe yet also worry why theyâre suddenly acting stranger than usual.
al of the assembled women glance towards sukuba, as if to display their care for you in front of him. as if they could win favor by pretending. though theyâve long come to realize that none of it works anymore.
as expected, sukuna ignores them entirely, striding back to his seat at the head of the platform. his presence alone silences any more of their whispers. he lowers himself onto the mat, his silks pooling darkly around him. without looking at anyone else, his eyes flicker towards you and he urges you wordlessly to resume your place near his side.
you simply nod at the other concubines. you donât bother responding to their âworriedâ comments. you hurry to obey the king of curses and sink onto your own cushion. you arrange your own robes neatly and keep your head slightly bowed. youâre squeezing your hands together to keep yourself sane throughout the rest of this afternoon.
itâs almost done.
moments later, maids appear with trays of food. their movements are precise and graceful as they set lacquered dishes across the long table. steaming bowls of rice, platters of delicately sliced fish and simmering stews rich with fragrance. each dish is prepared with careful preparation. your eyes dart from the concubines to the food, up to the maids and then to sukuna.
nothing looks off, but something feels off.
as always, the food tasters step forward. they bow low before kneeling at the tableâs edge. they take measured bites from each dish, chewing thoroughly and swallowing under the watchful eye of the king of curses.
silence stretches taut and tense until at last, each one of them bows again and declares the food safe to consume. sukuna waves them off impatiently, as though the entire ritual is a nuisance.
the food tasters retreat as silently as they came, not daring to speak without being spoken to in the presence of their lord.
sukuna is the first to pick up his chopsticks and eat. heâs got his own variety of dishes. though there is one plate prepared for just him which is filled with fried food and topped with vegetables and sauces.
it looks appetising, though youâre sure itâs anything but tasty. itâs human flesh, probably from one of the prisoners he keeps around just for his special cravings.
you glance back down at your own plates. you poke and prod at your food idly with your own pair of chopsticks. you nibble on your bottom lip out of the lingering anxiety in your system. the man beside you notices almost immediately. he always does, and so his voice cuts through the tense silence like a blade.
âeat.â
you freeze and your chopsticks tremble slightly in your grip. your body tenses up. you know that tone very well. he isnât messing around. and yet you canât seem to gather the courage to actually eat. the pit in your stomach grows and your earlier suspicions claw back up.
something is wrong and you can feel it in your bones.
sukuna notes your hesitation and his eyes cut to you like knives. he doesnât understand where your sudden anxiety is coming from. it seems illogical to himâhumans always think with their emotions instead of their rationality. if there is any real danger or threat bothering you, he wouldâve known. he wouldâve sensed it.
one thing he canât do is fight your own irrational thoughts.
âdonât test me, brat,â he growls and his jaw clenches as he notices youâre still not eating.
sukuna canât understand why, but your anxiety is rubbing off on him. he hates what he canât understand and immediately wants it gone. by doing so, he needs you to go back to your normal self again.
you slowly nod and pick up a small bit of rice, bringing it up to your lips. your stomach knots as you wrap your lips around the flavorful bite, forcing yourself to chew and swallow.
it tastes⊠the same as always.
perfectly seasoned, nothing off about it. maybe youâve actually been overthinking everything. the food tasters seemed just fine after eating the same dishes. thereâs nothing wrong at all.
you take a deep breath and start eating properly. everyone around the table does the same. hushed chattering echoes between the concubines as per usual, though they seem to cast furtive glances at sukuna every now and then.
you try to ignore it and brush it off as them simply seeking his attention. you pick up a piece of what looks like tofu from a small red bowl and start eating it. the texture is surprisingly chewy and the oily substance on it throws you off a bit, though itâs not unwelcome.
everything is going well and you start relaxing, slowly but surely.
minutes pass and the dishes are slowly emptied. sukuna finishes first and tosses his chopsticks aside with a grunt of satisfaction. he leans back slightly on the palms of his lower pair of hands. his crimson eyes scan the table and rest on you longer than anyone else. he lifts an eyebrow up as he realizes youâve finished your tray of food.
âtsk. seems like yâ were just hungry,â he notes with a huff, an attempt at humor and downplaying your human emotions.
you can only smile and nod. a small sigh of relief leaves your lips as you realize that perhaps youâve been stressing yourself out over nothing, just like sukunaâs implying.
the maids return to clear the table. bowls clink softly on the trays as theyâre lifted and taken away. you sit there and simply enjoy the breeze in your hair. your hands are folded in your lap and you close your eyes to take it easy. you need to have a moment after tiring yourself out.
you only straighten up when you hear sukunaâs voice cut through your thoughts. he says something about taking a walk around the estate. you open your eyes and gaze up at him with a polite smile.
âthat sounds like a great idea,â you respond with a hum.
the other women around the table seem to grow suspiciously restless. their whispers to each other donât seem to stop. you donât pay them any mind to keep yourself sane, not wanting to panic about nothing again. you lift yourself up from your cushion once sukuna does the same.
a sudden wave crashes over you once you stand on your own two feet.
heat. blinding, unbearable heat.
it blooms in your chest.
at first you think itâs just your nerves, or maybe you stood up too fast and your body needed to get used to the change after sitting for too long. then your breath catches and your throat feels like itâs tightening up. your surroundings seem to sway faintly and your vision starts to get blurred at the edges. you rub your eyes and tr to blink rapidly, however nothing works.
something is terribly wrong. you donât feel right at all.
your hands tremble uncontrollably at your sides and the heat spreads across your skin like wildfire. youâre burning up from within, you canât breathe, youâre dizzy, youâre nauseous, you feel like youâre going to dieâ
no.
not here. not now.
you press your palms into your knees to try and steady yourself. no one must see. if you falter now, if you collapse, youâll be seen as weak. as a burden.
you canât.
you bite down on your lip and try to swallow the bile rising in your throat. your vision is swimming and you can barely keep your balance.
âmph,â a small whimper escapes your lips before you can withstand it.
the endless whispers finally die down. the other concubines all turn their heads to you. the guards around follow. even the chirping birds around the courtyard seem to have fallen silent as the atmosphere changes and tenses in a split second.
your fingers tighten around your fan, knuckles whitening before it drops to the ground. your heart stutters as a sudden spike of panic stabs through the shallow calm you were trying to hold. the world tilts even more now.
you force yourself to blink, hoping the darkness will recede, but it only deepens. the periphery of your sight turns to a hazy swirl of reds and goldsâthe same colors of your jĆ«nihitoe.
suddenly, a hot and metallic taste floods your mouth. itâs sharp and bitter. you cough softly and try to hide it. but the cough turns into a rasping wheeze that shakes your entire frame.
your stomach clenches violently, nausea coiling like a snake through your gut. your knees threaten to buckle, but instinctively, you grip the tableâs edge. the wood presses into your palms which grounds you briefly, but not enough to stave off the overwhelming dizziness that crashes over you like waves.
. . . thatâs it.
sukuna moves in the blink of an eye.
that unblinking gaze of his sharpens into something more. the calm, cruel detachment that always seems to linger in his eyes vanishes for a fraction of a second, replaced by raw, unyielding fury at the sight of your suffering. his crimson eyes blaze, pupils narrowing as his towering form moves toward you with terrifying speed that nearly knocks you down.
âwoman!â sukunaâs voice booms across the courtyard. his tone is a mix of anger and disbelief, each syllable heavy enough to make the concubines flinch and the others around freeze in place.
you try to take a step towards him.
everything hurts.
it feels like youâre being burned alive from the inside. you want it to stopâyou need it to stop.
the only thing you can find comfort in is the blurry image of the king of curses rushing to your aid. the corner of your lips tugs upward for the fraction of a second before you cough up another gush of blood.
your body is weak and your knees buckle. you canât keep the act up anymore. you canât deny the reality of whatâs happening to you. your legs give up on you and the entire world tilts as you give up. the concubines around shriek softly, feigning shock and concern, but their eyes are filled with something else: confusion, curiosity and disbelief that the poison hasnât harmed sukuna himself.
before you can fall, sukunaâs large hands wrap around your waist and under your legs, lifting you effortlessly against his chest. his grip is firm but precise, holding you as if you were weightless, yet preventing even the slightest tremor from throwing you to the ground.
sukunaâs grip tightens slightly to steady you, his other hand pressing against your back. his usual stoicism fractures which reveals a raw edge of concernâthough it is simply terrifying in its intensity.
he lowers you slightly onto his lap, forcing you to meet his gaze, and the air between you feels charged with an almost tangible current of fury and panic.
âspeak. talk.â
itâs a command you normally wouldâve followed without a second of hesitation and yet this time you find yourself unable to. you part your lips to speak, however the only sound escaping your throat is a garbled moan of pain.
one of pure agony.
the curse of a man doesnât shout nor panic. his face remains unreadableâbut thereâs a palpable violence in the way his fingers dig into you. his chest rises and falls with controlled breaths, although the hum of raw power around him tells everyone present exactly whatâs running through his mind.
âuraume!â
his voice booms like thunder once more, vibrating through the garden. it carries both command and barely contained fury, sharp enough to make everyone flinch and their knees weaken of fear. no one dares to breathe too loud.
that maniac glint in his four eyes, the fury in his tone of voice and the terrifying aura lingering around sukuna all point at one thing.
death.
murder.
no one will get out of this breathing and well. no one will take another step out of this courtyard alive.
the command is heard from miles away. his loyal subordinate appears out of thin air and glides forward without hesitation, their pale features as unreadable as ever. they immediately bow as deep as possible, their forehead touching the ground. the others around instantly follow and gravel before their lord thatâs slowly yet surely losing it.
âslowly yet surely letting his true nature take over.
sukuna doesnât look at them yet. he can't bother toânot when youâre convulsing in his arms, hanging on to dear life by a thread. heâs trembling himself, not from fear, but from the pure rage coursing through his veins. he wants to lash out, to get rid of everyone present, to torture whoever had dared to put a hand on you.
a low growl escapes his lips as you let out another pathetic whimper. the painful sounds leaving your throat make him angrier. he crushes you against his chest, forcing your face against the crook of his neck.
as if simply holding you would make this any better.
in any other situation, it would. sukuna remembers those moments where youâd be weakend by a sickness. all youâd ask of him was to be in his arms. he refused many times, but had slowly given in to your requests the more time you spent together.
it slowly developed into a habit. sukuna would allow you to rest against him, to pull him into hugs when others weren't around, to be clingy. heâd grumble and protest, but would never push you off with force.
and now here he is, holding you close. secretly hoping you would straighten up and laugh. to tell him youâre feeling fine. like the many times you did before, when youâd tell him that youâre âsuddenlyâ feeling better because youâre in his arms.
those stupid, human jokes that he never understood.
how can you feel comfort being held by a monster? being held by arms that could easily snuff your life out? being held by arms that have killed many like you?
ryomen sukuna never understood and he thought he never would.
until this moment.
your fingers are weakly holding onto the collar of his robes, as if he could help you out of your misery. as if he could undo the effects of the poison youâve ingested.
poison; that's what it is.
there could be no other explanation to your sudden suffering after the meal. but who dares to poison whatâs his? who has the guts to disobey him so openly? to try and take his concubine?
his... woman.
your eyes are barely open anymore. the light that usually glimmers in your irises is nowhere to be found, replaced by an empty and vacant look.
sukuna grits his teeth. the only thing holding him back from turning the entire estate into a bloodbath is your body in his arms. youâre still breathing.
for now.
sukunaâs grip tightens on you as he glares over your head at his personal chef. his voice drips with restrained violence. âexplain. now."
those two words are enough to convey what sukuna wants to know. what he needs to know.
the weight of his anger is unbearable. uraume bows deeply, composed as ever, but there is no mistaking the edge of tension in their frame. âmy lord, the food tasters reported nothing. each dish was tested and deemed safeââ
the words are cut short by a flick of sukunaâs hand.
a servant standing to the sideâone who had carried in the lacquered traysâlets out a strangled scream as her body twists unnaturally, bones snapping audibly before she collapses lifeless against the gravel. blood pools instantly beneath her, stark against the delicate garden floor.
chaos erupts.
the concubines gasp, hands flying to their lips. The brown haired one dares to murmur quietlyâto try and calm him down, âmy lord, surelyââ
another classic mistake.
another flick of Sukunaâs fingers, and the woman is sent flying across the courtyard. her body smashes against the wooden wall, crumpling into silence. the other women keep their foreheads pressed against the small stones beneath them, too terrified to breathe too loud.
âdo not,â sukuna growls, his voice low and dangerous, âspeak unless i command it, you useless fools.â
yet another flick of his hand. yet another concubine, who dared to flinch, is seized mid-breath. sheâs sent flying across the garden, her body smashing into a pillar with a sickening crack. she collapses in a heap and remains unmoving.
gone.
the remaining ladies freeze, horror painted across their faces, but no one dares move to help their fellow concubines.
you wheeze faintly in his arms, your lashes fluttering and your body feverish and frail. sukunaâs attention shifts instantly back to you, his hand cupping the side of your face with a roughness that would have bruised you if you werenât already weak and slick with sweat.
âbreathe,â sukuna orders as though his command alone could force air into your failing lungs. his eyes scan your face, noting every flicker of pain, every tremor of your lips, every bead of sweat glistening on your forehead.
whoever did this to you shall pay dearly.
his fingers dig into your skin roughly once he notices that youâre starting to lose consciousness. you try so hard to keep yourself grounded, but you cannot. you grasp at his robes desperately, even as your hands tremble uncontrollably and your heart feels like itâs going to stop any time.
âdon't you fuckinâ dare.â
the words leave in a strangled growl. a sound sukuna didnât know he could makeâone he never made in his entire cursed lifetime. a desperate and furious command.
your chest still moves, a shallow, ragged thing. you count the movements in an attempt to keep yourself awake. for your sakeâno for his sake. even through the blur of your vision, you can make out the face of the king of curses. that expression youâve never seen on his face before.
fury, anger. . . despair. almost humanly so.
one. two.
the third inhalation is thin; the exhale is a little slower and then there is nothing but a faint tremor. the shiver that runs through you is not from the cold. you fingers fall entirely slack, and your arm falls away with an inaudible thud. you cannot register the pooling crimson at the corner of your mouth.
the world keeps spinning, but you are not in it. everything slowly fades away. your hearing is the last to go.
your lids flutter once,
and then they close.
when sukunaâs arms tighten around youânot in panic but as if grasping an inevitabilityâhe registers the absence first in the small, clinical ways he always notices: the way your pulse under his thumb thins and then thins again until it is only a whisper; the breath that fails to meet his ear; the stillness of the little muscles at your throat.
for a fraction of a second there is a slow, stunned unspooling in him, an animal tilt of the head that is not quite human.
you are as weightless as a memory in his arms.
sukunaâs mouth opens, and the sound that comes out is not merely a shout but the tearing of the heavensâpart animalistic howl, part command that shivers the plates on the low table. everyone flinches, their faces purpling with genuine terror. servants stutter and scatter as if the air itself has turned to knives. their bodies betray their rational thoughts to stay still and not move an inch.
out of pure fear, they try to escape the wrath they know awaits them all.
âno.â
the word is not just spoken. it is ripped out of him like a piece of bone; rough and violent. a word small and useless against the tide of his rage and yet it contains the nine hells.
sukuna clamps you tighter to him as if by crushing your body he can force life back into it. âopen yâr fuckinâ eyes!â he growls loud enough to shake the walls of the estate. his rough hands move with brutal efficiency, fingers clawing at your throat, your chest, trying to find the pulse that has fled.
he presses his ear to your heart and then slams his forehead against yours, breath hot and ragged. for a second thereâs something else under the rage: a raw, thin thread of disbelief that pierces his being. as if none of his long existence prepared him for the small, fierce catastrophe of losing you.
sukunaâs hands tighten where they hold you. for an instant he looks like he might foldâmight cradle you and simply vanish with youâbut that is unlike him. his face fractures into a different expression entirely: not sorrow, not merely rage, but a cold, incredible focus that narrows on the idea of retribution.
of vengeance.
he becomes a force, a blade honed to a single dark purpose. the monster that heâs always been. not the mellowed version that heâs been around you.
noâthe dreadful curse that even the heavens fear.
only sukuna moves. it is slow at first, deliberately cruel: he holds you a fraction of an inch from his chest, eyes burning as if by focusing hard enough he will force you to draw breath.
âthis is not the time for yâr stupid jokes. look at me properly,â he snarls and slaps your cheek slightly, shaking your head by your jaw afterwards.
heâs expecting you to listen. just like you always do, just like you always have been doing since the moment he found youâ
itâs futile.
you continue to lay there quietly, your eyes barely open and your body unmoving.
thatâs when something inside him finally snaps.
the first violence is small and immediateâso small that it is easy to miss until the body hits. with the casual contempt of a god wiping away an insect, he flicks two fingers.
a servant who had dared to step forward in shock is hurled like an unwanted scrap of paper; his body slams into a pillar and he does not move again. the sound is horrible and sharp.
sukunaâs chest heaves once and then twice. the tide of his temper pulls and then surges. he does not quake with grief in the way humans might; grief for him is different. his face is a statue carved from iron, but the raw, animalistic heat beneath it roars.
he lowers his head and his voice, when it comes, is a thing that makes the air vibrate;
âwho dares do this?â he asks, but it is no interrogative; it is a verdict.
the concubines, the women who had sat prettily with knives hiding behind silk smiles, fold in on themselves. their practiced masks crack and crumble. they try to weep prettily, but the sound in their throats is the whimper of trapped birds.
no one dares to answer. whoever replies, innocent or not, will meet their end. though their silence is futile as wellâno one would leave this place alive either way.
not after daring to mess with the ryomen sukuna; to take away the only human who he tolerates.
sukuna stands as though the world has become a thing to be crushed beneath his heel. you rest awfully still in the crook of his muscular arm, your head tucked against his ribs. he cradles you with one arm and with the others he rends.
objects splinter, screens shiver and collapse, lacquerware explodes into a rain of shards, walls crumble.
the names of the culprits are not necessary. everyone will suffer like you had.
the king of curses looks and people break. he lifts a hand and your head lady-in-waitingâs breath stops midâsentence; her face turns ashen and then slack when her spine buckles under an invisible force.
she had it coming, as she failed to keep her lady safe.
another flickâa food taster collapses, blood blooming from nose and mouth as if his insides have been unstitched with a thought.
the concubines cry out for mercy, their sudden confidence replaced with ugly despair. their pleas are words that mean nothing.
â. . . you want to play at power in my presence?â sukuna raises his voice a notch. he moves through the courtyard like a predator, taking, breaking, extracting confession without speech.
someone grabs for himâtoo brave, or merely stupidâand sukuna bends toward them, fingertips grazing their temple. their eyes explode into milky white, death sliding in like a whisper.
the compoundâs gates seem to shudder and the gardensâ ponds reflect nothing but the crimson of his rage.
âyou dare. you dare to touch whatâs mine. you dare to touch my woman?! you fools.â
even those who arenât guilty are not merely extinguished; sukuna makes examples. he tears down their names, their histories; he forces them to watch one another die in ways that twist the meaning of âlesson.â
the estate becomes a stage for his wrath: servants hung, walls shredded into pieces, precious lacquerware ground beneath boots. the gardensâso calm earlier that dayâbecome a ruin of splattered red and shattered material. blood slicks the stone.
all the while, he returns to you. between executions, between horrified screams, he readjusts your precious body in his arm. he wipes your face with his sleeve, his fingers thick with other peopleâs blood and your own.
he speaks no prayers; his words are not for gods. they are small, carved syllables meant for no one but the human lying unmoving in his arms.
âthey will all pay for this,â sukuna breathes heavily with fury, âthey fuckinâ will.â
âdamn them all.â
sukuna eventually halts before the cluster of women trembling at the far end of the courtyard. his damned concubines.
he knows theyâre the ones behind it all. behind the treason, the betrayalâthe poison.
their silken robes, once meant to entice, are mottled with dirt and sweat, their elaborate hairstyles loosening as they bowed and clung to one another like frightened children. their wide eyes reflected his four burning pupils, terror freezing them in place even as their lips stumbled over pleas.
one crawls forward onto her hands and knees, pressing her forehead to the blood-slick floor again, her voice high and desperate as she cried, âmy lord, i had no hand in thisâi swear, i would never harm her!â
another followed. the arrogant blonde, now reduced to a pitiful mess. âplease, i truly meant no harm. it was supposed to be a jokeââ
their words tumble over one another, frantic and hollow, the sound of cowards who had seen death draw near.
sukunaâs steel gaze cuts through their trembling forms like a blade. for a heartbeat, he sees not their tears but the memory of the woman they had sought to poison.
he remembers the times they had whispered behind your back, their sharp tongues dripping venom. he remembers how they had mocked your gentleness, sneered at your presence, tried to make you shrink into silence when you first entered his estate.
your eyesâsoft and patientâhad met his multiple times after enduring cruel treatment, and though you had smiled, sukuna had noticed the hurt flash across your face.
those moments return to him now, clear as firelight in the darkness of his rage, and it fed his wrath until it boiled over for the nth time.
sukuna takes a step closer, the ground beneath his feet quaking faintly with his cursed energy. âyou dare cry for mercy now?â he spits, his voice a thunderclap in the suffocating silence.
one of the concubines scrambles to grab his robes, her nails scratching the fabric as she sobs, âi can change, i can be loyalâplease donât kill me, my lord! i will do better!â
sukunaâs lip curls in pure disgust. without a warning, he presses two fingers to her brow. her body convulses once before her skull splits under the weight of his power and she drops lifeless to the ground, her blood pooling around her like spilled ink. the others scream as they realise that none of them will escape their deaths.
sukuna only advances, his hand slicing through the air without pause.
another woman was torn in half at the waist, her agonising shriek cut short, the silk of her robes fluttering to the ground like discarded wings. he moves among them like death incarnate, unhurried and unstoppable. every plea is drowned beneath the crack of bone, the wet rip of flesh, the hiss of cursed energy burning the air.
one concubine tries to crawl beneath the table, but he drags her out with a flick of his wrist. her body slams against the ground before he crushes her chest beneath his palm. another clasps her hands and begs for forgiveness, her tears streaking through her makeup.
sukuna seizes her by the throat, lifting her until her legs kicked uselessly and her pleas are reduced to choked gasps. he leans in, his voice a low growl against her ear: âyou treated her like she was less than you and so shall i, you fuckinâ insects.â
with a squeeze, her neck snaps, and he tosses her aside as though she had never mattered.
in the meanwhile, uraumeâs presence is irrelevant in the epicenter of the rage. they do not flee. they do not scream. they simply kneel, expression as blank and unreadable as ever. as the bodies fall and the air thickens with the metallic tang of violence, uraume keeps their bow steady. they are not surprised by the rampage occuring before their eyes.
it was bound to happen, one way or another.
they know sukuna is capable of much more. he is capable of creating hell on earth and they have seen examples of it with their own eyes before. this is nothing compared to the real wrath he is going to unleash on the world outside this estate for stealing the one being he tolerated.
when the last of all (once alive) humans lay broken at his feet, the courtyard was silent except for the drip of blood onto the stones. the garden that had once been a stage for laughter and whispers is now a graveyard, littered with bodies in shredded silk, jeweled hairpins scattered like offerings to a vengeful god.
sukuna stands in the center, his chest heaving, his claws flexing, his eyes burning with lingering fury. he looks down at the carnage, at the women who had thought themselves untouchable in their schemes, and a bitter smirk twists his mouth.
âi should have gotten rid of you bunch sooner,â he spits into the silence, his voice laced with contempt. âyou cunts were never worthy to breathe the same air as her.â
the words hung heavy in the night, a vow and a condemnation all at once.
uraume watches, still calm, still unblinking. no one else movesâthere is nothing left to move. even the animals that usually wander the grounds of the courtyard have either been caught up in the slices or have fleed long before.
the slaughter is complete. blood covers the garden like a grotesque offering to a god. bones and silk and lacquer are strewn in careless, dreadful patterns. the sound of the wind seems small against the enormity of what has happened.
sukuna pauses over the final person alive and studies the face as if memorizing it. then, with slow and theatrical finality, he opens that personâs chest with little more ceremony than one opens a book and draws out the heart, spectating the instant the life blinks out and it stops beating.
itâs a brutal and merciless demonstration that what belongs to him will be defended with a ferocity that is more blinding than anything else.
after that, the estate is a husk. bodies are scattered everywhere. blood covers every surface.
âuseless. each and every one of them,â sukuna mutters harshly to himself as he stands amidst the chaos. human blood soaks his entire frame, dripping from his clothes and limbs. his grip on your still body never falters nor weakens.
when the sun dips low and the gardens smell of smoke and iron, sukuna finally decides to lie you down gently upon a clear patch of grass beneath a large oak tree. the same tree you loved to sit underneath while reading your favorite novels.
he smooths your hair with bloody hands that could crush mountains, and for the first time since the violence began, the sound of his breath breaksânot with fury but with something like emptiness.
sukuna bends close and presses his forehead to yours. the motion is small. itâs private and almost intimate. he does not weep in the way humans mightâtears are useless and heâs never cried in his life. although he cannot deny the faintest ache in his chest.
itâs an unpleasant feeling heâs never experienced before.
the pink-haired man stays quiet for a good while. he takes in your still form with an unreadable expression. his rampage had taken most of the fury out of the system, replaced by a feeling of emptiness.
the ryomen sukuna, who had slaughtered armies and turned shrines into tombs, found himself emptied by the stillness of one fragile body lying against the earth.
a shift in the air tells him that uraume had approached. they did not speak nor did they move without permission. despite that, sukuna can feel the tension coiling in their frame and the faint vibration of intent held tightly in check. a lesser man would not have noticed.
sukunaâs eyes slowly opened and with the smallest - almost imperceptible - tilt of his head, he gave them a sign.
uraume knows that thatâs the permission they were looking for. they move soundlessly toward the remains of the long table. much had already been cleared away before your collapse. servants had scurried to remove the trays and cups in frantic half-measures before sukunaâs wrath turned the courtyard into a slaughterhouse.
but one tray still lingered, left almost untouched: yours.
uraumeâs sharp gaze swept over the plates and bowls. their delicate hands move alongside the fragments of ceramic to inspect what is left of the food inside. then they freeze.
the meal inside a specific red bowl is one they had prepared. which couldnât possibly be, because . . .
uraume is in charge of sukunaâs meals only.
not yours. not the other concubinesâ.
the other kitchen maids and servantsâno, everyone around the estate is very well aware of that fact. so how come sukunaâs meal had somehow landed in your bowl?
uraumeâs eyes narrowed, a faint frown cutting across their face. they lift the bowl and inspect its rim, tilting it against the fading light to catch any residue that clung to its residue. a faint shimmer - oily and unnatural - clings stubbornly inside.
poison.
uraume brings the edge closer. not to consume but to smell. it doesnât necessarily smell of anything and could easily be mistaken for a simple dressing.
still, they guess that the culprits have planned this way ahead of time. researching into the silent killersâthe most powerful poisons to mix into one that would go unnoticed. the effects seem to have a delayed response on the victim as well.
clever, in its simplicity, but utterly useless against a already cursed existence like that of sukuna.
realisation falls heavy on the white-haired individual.
the concubines, servants and even the food tasters. they must have all conspired together to pool their malice into this desperate act. they knew striking sukuna directly was impossible, so they had settled for poison, thinking the strongest one available in the country would do. they had severly underestimated his immunity.
their plan has failed greatly, uraume thinks.
they thought to strike sukuna down first, which would have granted them free reign over the estate and probably over you as well. they would have made your life a living hell for the mistreatment they had endured from their lord.
and yet in their blindness, they struck down the wrong person. the wrong victim. the one person whose death ensured their own annihilation.
with slow and deliberate steps, uraume returns to the old oak tree. sukuna still sits beneath it, your body now cradled against his chest. the aura radiating from him is no longer raging fire but something colder, more suffocating and terrifying.
uraume halts a respectful distance away and waits. they do not speak until at last sukuna shifts his gaze upwards, a single flicker of movement which is permission enough.
âmy lord,â uraume says softly, their voice low so as not to disturb the fragile quiet. âi investigated the remains of the meal. a bowl i had specifically prepared for you was not where i had intended it to be placed. it had been . . . exchanged with the original dish on the ladyâs tray.â
they take a deep breath before continuing, feeling a surge of rage at the audacity of whoever had done such a thing, âthe one dish meant for you was placed on her tray instead. the two meals must have been mistaken by the kitchen maids, as they had looked almost the same."
uraume hesitates but resumes, âthe dressing inside is unmistakable. a poison crafted by human hands. added to the meal when i had turned my back. weak. foolish. the concubines and servants must have conspired together, thinking they could end you with it.â
the silence deepens. the weight of sukunaâs gaze bore down upon them. uraumeâs voice drops to a whisper, the faintest tremor betraying their usually unshakable calm. âi shouldâve seen it, my lord. i should have anticipated such treachery. i underestimated their desperation. i failed to protectââ
âenough.â
uraume freezes before bowing deeply again.
âyou think i did not expect this?â sukunaâs words are cold and measured, yet carry a heavy weight. âyou think this is the first time worms have schemed behind my back, thinking of themselves as clever?â
his gaze flickers down to you, softer for only the briefest heartbeat before hardening like stone again. âit was inevitable. humans are weak, foolish creatures. this is what they do.â
sukunaâs rough hand smooths your hair once more. uraumeâs words still linger in the air, but he has already dismissed them. he gives no answer to their apologies, no further acknowledgment.
instead, he keeps his focus on you.
his hand pauses, his thumb brushing over your temple before curling against your cheek. for a long moment, sukuna says nothing. when he speaks again, he addresses you and only you.
âdo you agree with me now, you little brat?â
sukuna says the last three words with a surprising calmness. you would always scrunch up your nose or duck your head in embarrassment whenever heâd call you that.
but now, you do not move a single muscle.
he gives a short, humorless laugh as he remembers the way you used to smile up at him. the way you looked at him like he wasnât a monster. like he didnât mistreat you most of the time.
perhaps heâd taken that for grantedâtaken your presence for granted
âyâ laughed at me onceâdo ya remember?â sukuna scoffs before continuing, âwhen i told you that humans were nothing but vermin, you dared to smile and say ânot all of us.â"
he squeezes your jaw, pressing your cheeks together. something that used to scrunch up your face in an annoyingly endearing pout.
âi should have torn yâr throat out for daring to contradict me. but instead, i let you live. i let you stay.â
sukuna lets out a heavy breath through his nose. he cannot believe heâs here talking to a corpse. he never sat with the dead, always moved on and thrown everyone aside who leaves his side at the end of their lives. but for some reason, he cannot seem to do the same with you.
âin the end, i got proven right by your own kind. the one you so pitifully defended until your last breath. . . tsk.â
the king of curses clicks his tongue and his jaw clenches. the crimson light of the setting sun glins off the blood-slicked stones and lacquered fragments of the estate. his eyes do not leave your still form, his jaw rigid and his fingers tightening against the soft weight of your body.
uraume lingers a careful distance from him. their gaze flicks between your body cradled in sukuna's arms and the endless stretch of devastation around them. they do not breathe too heavily nor do they dare make the slightest noise. they wait for another indication, another flicker of permission to speak again.
they wait. they wait for that signâa subtle twitch, a shift in posture, a breath given in permission. hours, or perhaps just mere minutes, seem to stretch infinitely until a shift of sukuna's shoulders gives them the faintest permission.
uraume exhales silently.
âlord sukuna,â they murmur carefully, âis there truly. . . nothing we can do for her? nothing at all?â
sukunaâs upper red eyes flicker to them, his lower pair still on you. he knows what they mean by it. knows what they're subconcsciouly questioning.
reverse cursed technique.
âdo yâ think a mortalâs life can be saved after such a violation to their body? hah.â
uraume stays silent for a while before shaking their head. their eyes flicker downwards to the ground beneath their knees. they donât understand why theyâre so adamant on trying. even when they know that there is no chance that anyone would survive such a poison.
no human would.
if those traitors made a poison so strong that they think could take a powerful and immortal curse out, then a regular human like you would not stand a chance.
sukuna huffs before he speaks up again. âi had begun the process the moment she fell,â he reveals gruffly, speaking of his ability to use the reverse cursed technique on others, âbut she was gone before it could reach her.â
uraume swallows as they try to reconcile the fact that even sukuna, unyielding and almost godlike in power, had been unable to shield you from your own mortality.
the silence stretches as sukuna finally moves to lift you. he holds your body bridal style gainst his chest. he readjusts you in his arms with a jostle of your form before speaking up in a low grumble;
â. . . i truly despise the weak.â
itâs a well-known fact that sukuna despises mortals for their various vulnerabilities and their lack of power.
but just this once, he uttered that sentence with different intent.
he hates your morality, simply because it ripped you away from him. and for that he wonât forgive you, nor himself for letting you become his one and only weakness.
as much as he would never admit it out loud.
. . .
ryomen sukuna eventually starts to walk. he takes slow and deliberate steps through the carnage of the courtyard. every step crushes splintered wood beneath his feet, every motion sends droplets of human blood scattering.
the estate is hushed. even the wind seems subdued, as if its mourning the scene. pools of blood glisten in the dying light which reflect the chaos. sukunaâs robes trail through the debris without a single ripple of hesitation.
uraume follows behind without as much of a word. no matter what happens, they shall always be loyal to their lord.
the king of curses moves without haste. he steps inside the main building of the estate. his slashes from earlier had cut through every structure, even killing and dismembering every being that fled or had been inside.
no one had escaped unscathed.
sukuna carries you further into the remnants of the estate. the one that was once filled with your voice, your laughter, your presenceânow filled with nothing but death.
they pass the broken windows and shoji doors. for an instant, the moon tears a thin silver line through the gloom. sukunaâs face is a study of stilled fury and something that might, if a softer world existed, be called sorrow.
he does not look back. uraume does not speak.
yet sukunaâs thoughts are chaotic. thinking of his next steps, of all the ways he can release his anger against the world and humankind itself.
now that the only human he cared about has slipped through his fingers, he can set the monster inside of him free.
and that the king of curses will do. heâll make this earth a living hell and make everyone suffer for taking what is his.
in the meantime, your limp body sways lightly with each step sukuna takes. the world had stolen your breath, stilled your heart and drained the warmth from your skin. nothing will be the same after what happened on this fateful day.
. . . yet even in that silence, something stubborn and almost indomitable lingers.
sukuna and his subordinate remain oblivious, their eyes fixed ahead and unaware of the impossible unfolding right in front of them. they do not notice the faintest shiftâthe smallest stir.
itâs then that - against all odds - your finger twitches.
Synopsis: A lot can be said about Sukuna. Heâs a true warrior. Beastly. A man fully capable of overthrowing the current regime if he wanted, but chooses not to because heâs lazy. Heâs also irritatingly persistent, that much is known with how many times heâs come into the brothel demanding your presence rather than going with all the other courtesans heâs been offered⊠for free, thanks to the power and status that comes with his name.
It's been years now. You canât hide from him forever, especially not when your mother, the Madame herself, is starting to grow tired of turning him down.
Cw: explicit smut, profanity, alcohol and tobacco use, historical au, loosely inspired by apothecary diaries and demon slayer, sukuna's a menace, the emperor's afraid of him, readers an oiran (highest rank)
notes: I haven't done the tags yet!! so if you asked and see this beforehand, just know im working on it lol.
m.list | chapter one | next chapter
âLord Sukunaâs here⊠again.âÂ
The sudden announcement made you and your mother audibly groan. Being the madame that ran the brothel, she was never much of a maternal figure, except for moments like this, where the arrogant general requested your presence.
More like demanded.
Heâs been offered other courtesans, as a way to thank him for reigning enough terror in the country to keep everyone in line, but he refuses them each time. Most think itâs entitlement, that his position in society is the reason why he thinks he's deserving of the house's oiran, but itâs unfortunately much deeper than that. Itâs something you avoid sharing, mainly because your mothers growing tired of turning the man down and itâd give her a reason to finally give in to his offer.Â
If only you hadnât lied and covered for the boy who stole skewers from one of the food stands all those years ago, maybe your freedom wouldnât feel so threatened whenever he steps foot into the house. No good deed goes unpunished.Â
At just fifteen years old, Sukunaâs body was already littered with tattoos, of course you recognized him years later at a local festival. And he recognized you as the girl that prevented him from receiving a lashing that day. A new tattoo maybe. Heâs been visiting the house ever since, taking the rejection as just a suggestion.Â
âI donât understand why you canât just sit down and have tea with him,â your mother grumbles, letting out an annoyed sigh as she got up from the seat.Â
âDo you really think heâd stop after just tea?â you argue back.Â
She waves a hand and clicks her tongue in response, not interested in hearing your reasons as to why you donât want to take him as a customer. Sheâs heard it allâ heâs scary, heâll steal your soul, heâs fucking annoying. All lies. The reasons have gotten more and more ridiculous as the years passed. She knows you donât want to leave, she just wonât say it.
She walks away as you try to come up with another reason, the last thing she needed was getting a headache from you, knowing the young man will give her one in just a few seconds.Â
By the time she makes her way downstairs, heâs already made himself at home, lazily sitting back in the silk cushions reserved for guests, eating the expensive snacks given to him by the serving girls who are always afraid to give him anything other than the best. They were met with threats the one and only time theyâve offered him tea, so now they give him an entire bottle of sake. Half of the bottleâs gone.Â
âLord Sukuna,â she kindly greets him, he sees right through it every single time. âWhat a pleasure. How can I help you?â
âYou ask me that as if I havenât been asking for the same thing for years now,â he says with a grin, rubbing his undying persistence in her face. Itâs insulting, really. âYou know why Iâm here.â
She knows, and sheâs exhausted. Not just from him, but from you. When heâs not off traumatizing others, including the emperor himself, heâs here, trying to strike a deal with the madame whoâs known for bleeding men dry of their money. Meanwhile youâre directly upstairs above them. The windows open so you can listen in on their conversation as if youâll learn something new.
Sheâs sighs and takes a seat in front of him, eyeballing the crumbs heâs left on the table and floor. Thereâs none on him though, the bastard brushed them off.Â
âSheâs busy,â she lies, not at all concerned anymore if he believes her or not. Even if you were busy, he wouldnât believe it. âWeâve welcomed new courtesans into the house, perhaps youâd be interested in meeting them.â
âYeah, no.âÂ
âWell, guess youâre out of luck then.â
Sheâs probably the only person that could get away with speaking to him like that, he oddly respects it, though he wonât budge either. Not even if itâs his future mother-in-law. Silence settles between the two, two incredibly hard headed individuals clashing over the most stubborn person of them allâ you. The only thing that gets in between it is someone clearing their throat directly above them, heâs pretty sure itâs you. Sukunaâs well aware that you eavesdrop on their conversation and heâs pretty sure you enjoy yourself when doing so.Â
âDouble her price.â
âSheâs not for sale,â she responds irritably.Â
âTriple it,â he stubbornly persists.
She groans, âitâs not about the money.â Sheâs convinced she could quadruple the price and heâd extort the money out of someone if he, for any reason, couldnât afford it.Â
âSure it is,â he pops a grape in his mouth, âyouâre running an entire business, no?â
âI am, but that one's a separate entity of her own,â she reminds him for the millionth time. âDonât forget her ranking and reputation, she can turn clients down. She could easily be one of the emperor's concubines.â
âAnd donât forget that Iâm the one who prevented that from happening,â he laughs. The emperor was smart not to follow through with the silly thought of inviting you to the palace.Â
For a man that enjoys what he does for a living, there really isnât much Sukunaâs above doing.Â
The madame stares at him in disbelief, unsure if she should be impressed or disgusted by how corrupt he isâ how open he is about it too. Sheâs lived through war in her childhood and never once thought sheâd find herself wishing itâd break out once again, yet here she was wishing he wasnât so good at his job. Her poker face eventually comes back as she decides itâs time to wrap up the meeting sheâs forced to endure multiple times a month.Â
She smoothes her robe as she stands and holds her hand out for payment.Â
âFor the sakeâ donât know why they had to give you the expensive bottle,â she grumbles to herself.Â
âIâm a man of taste,â he reaches into his pockets and gives her more than enough to replace the bottle.Â
âYouâre a pest.â
âIâm your future son-in-law,â he corrects her with a grin and she laughs, not because she found it funny but because you were right, he is fucking annoying.Â
Maybe if he were a little nicer, sheâd think he was clever for figuring out that you were her daughter. But no, heâs a nuisance. A spoiled, petulant man-child. If only she knew her one and only child would bring her this much trouble...Â
She wonât finish the rest of that thought. You bring in enough money to make up for it.Â
âSee you next time⊠mother.â
Maybe not.
âGet the fuck out.â
All he does is snicker to himself, continuing to drink out of the bottle as he strides out of the high-end brothel, as pleased as ever from how easy it was to get under the esteemed Madameâs skin.Â
And like always, he feels eyes on him just before he steps into the carriage. He glances up and catches a glimpse of you, standing up from the window sill you sat on while listening to yet another failed bargain.Â
You donât even try to hide the fact that you hide from him anymore.Â
The grin on his face grows further when he hears the Madame yelling at you to get your ass downstairs, ready to give you an earful, returning the headache that he had given to her. Not that you care. Doesnât seem like it at least from the way you walk out of view at a leisurely pace. Â
âWhy canât you just take the fucking offer?â she hisses at you, not even waiting for you to fully descend the stairs.Â
You donât really know why. At first you thought it was because he was a thief turned war criminal, but then you realized you didnât really care if you ended up in the hands of the nation's most feared man. If you had to be honest with yourself, youâre not exactly against him. At this point, youâre against leaving the comfort of this house.Â
âHave you seen him?â you ask.Â
âI have, the serving girls have had to pry you off of customers that are built like himâ oh donât give me that look,â she snaps from the way your eyes widen at the crude remark. âWe all know itâs true, you drain the life and vitality out of these men.âÂ
And youâre not looking to stop that anytime soon.Â
âAnd the worst part?â she continues, pacing back and forth in frustration, âhe knows you enjoy your job. He knows youâre a whore! Weâre never getting rid of him.âÂ
âOh my godâ okayâ I get it!â you swiftly stop her from rambling. It doesnât even hurt your feelings when she talks like that, you just donât want to hear the same script for the hundredth time. Youâre just as tired of it as she is with him coming into the brothel to pester anyone he comes into contact with.Â
âOne of these days, Iâm making you come down here to face him,â she grumbles, shaking her head as she walks awayâ most likely going back to the room where all the liquor is stored. âWho knows, maybe heâll listen to you.â
âDoubt it,â you mutter back.Â
What couldâve been a forgotten memory has turned into a core one ever since he started visiting the brothel. It started off as him bringing his coworkers with him to drink with some of the lower ranked courtesans, sometimes sleeping with them, in hopes that he could possibly work his way up, all while his salary steadily rose. Buttering up the Madame in a way, raising his chances of buying you out when he finally had enough money.Â
At one point she did like him, he brought her more business by sending his colleagues there, he even convinced other high ranking officials to rent out the courtesans from your house for events.Â
But you never came down to greet him, only attending the events that he just so happened to be too busy to attend. After nearly two years of trying and failing to do things the right way, he gave up and started coming on strong, explicitly stating that he wanted your services and your services only.Â
And no, youâre right, he wouldnât stop at just having tea with you. He wants to know the girl that stupidly covered for him when he ran into the brothel all those years ago. Â
It was quiet that day, only to be broken by the monsoon that is Ryomen Sukuna, a troubled orphan at the time.Â
He was hungry.Â
It had been days since heâd eaten. Most people wouldnât even look at him let alone try to help him, believing that he was already too far gone at the age of 15. No parents. No dreams or aspirations. Nothing to live for. They wouldâve rather given their food scraps to a dog.Â
Too bad. Sukuna lived for himself.
He wouldâve been more slick had the hunger and dehydration not gotten to him, but he was nearly delirious, blatantly stealing a handful of skewers from a food stand. On most days, he wouldâve been able to outrun whoever was chasing him, but not that day. He was surprised he was even able to get away for a moment, after who knows how long the group of grown men had beaten him for.Â
Men whoâd probably never gone a day having to feel a fraction of hunger he felt that day.Â
He ran for his life, convinced they wouldâve killed him if they had caught up to him once more. He turned the corner fast, running toward the first open door he sawâ the entrance to the famous Willow House.Â
Sukunaâs only luck that day was being caught by you and not the Madame, who happened to be out for business.Â
At first you heard light crashing in one of the storage rooms. It shouldâve startled you more, but it was the middle of the day, figuring it was one of the workers slipping up from heat exhaustion. But instead, you crack open the door to find a boy.Â
Bloodied and battered. Slumped against the wall, panting softly. His shirt was all ripped up, covered in dirt, exposing all the tattoos heâd earned himself thus far. He didnât say anything, he just glared, but even then there was something behind those sharp eyes of his, begging for mercy for once in his life.Â
âYou there!âÂ
A deep, angry voice from the entrance startled you. Watching you flinch from that and not from sight before you surprised the boy, giving him a smidge of hope when you turned around and walked to the door to face the group of men.Â
They might as well have been barking at you.Â
âWeâre looking for a boyâ pink hair, probably covered in blood. The little bastard stole from a vendor. Someone said he ran in this direction.â
You were practically frozen as they continued to push you for an answer.
You werenât scared of them, you were scared of your mother coming back. She wouldâve reigned hell on everyone, including you for just being there.Â
âOi!â one of the men snapped his fingers to grab your attention. She wouldâve cut his hand off for it, âAre you fucking deaf? Have you seen a boy running through here or not?!â
You began to stutter, ân-no, IââÂ
âYouâre not allowed to speak to the girls in that house unless you're a paying customer,â your neighbor from across the street yells out.Â
One of the men snapped his head back, growing angrier at the lack of cooperation, âdo you think we give a fuck? Weâre looking for a thief right now.â
âYou should,â your neighbor suppressed a laugh. âThe madame of that house doesnât mess around with her girls. Sheâll cut your tongues out herself if she catches you yelling at them, especially that one.â
The three men froze, the description of the woman sounded familiar. If it was the same woman they were thinking of, they absolutely had the right to feel unsettled, hence why they didnât bother to push the matter any further.Â
âTchâ whatever,â one muttered. âWeâll find that kid eventually, not like pinkyâs hard to miss.â
They didnât even bother to say another word to you before walking off, continuing their search. As for you, you shut the door. It shouldnât have even been open in the first place.Â
Sukuna was still in the storage closet when you came back to him with a glass of water, half-unconscious, slightly flinching from the pain as the adrenaline wore off. He stared at you for a moment when you tried handing him some water, wondering if it came with a catch. After the long stare off, he figured if there was one, it wouldâve been worth it. He couldnât remember the last time he had cold water.Â
â...Are you hungry?â you eventually asked, trying to fill the silence between you two.Â
He hesitated. Even after getting beat within an inch of his life, he still had pride. But just the thought of food made his stomach continue to sting. He was so fucking hungry.Â
âYeah,â he muttered, unable to meet your eyes. âA little.â
âI figured,â you muttered back. He couldâve sworn he heard a little sadness in your voice when you told him to wait there, rushing out of the room. If he hadnât been in that much pain, he probably wouldâve laughed from hearing your feet hurriedly pattering in and out of the storage room.Â
You werenât gone for too long. The most he expected from you were some stale crackers, maybe a riceball if you were feeling generous enough. When you came back with a tray full of fresh food, his jaw nearly dropped.Â
Miso soup, a couple riceballs, an entire skewer of chicken, and more ice water. All he could think about at that moment was that you absolutely had no concept of what money was, andâŠ
âIâm not gonna owe you for this, am I?â he groans, trying his best not to sound ungrateful.
You tilt your head in confusion, âwhy would you owe me for this?âÂ
Yeah. You were definitely spoiled.
âYou're draped in silk and gold,â he mutters, nodding his head at your clothing. âPeople like you donât just give things away without expecting something in return.â
âOh, Iââ you cut yourself off, embarrassment creeping up on you. Even if you werenât taking clients like that just yet, it was still weird to talk about with a boy around your age. âIâm not expecting anything in return. I justâ youâre practically salivating right now just looking at the food. Can you just eat already?â
Your sudden nervousness pulled a smirk out of the boy. Though he had a cut on his lip, he immediately winced right after.Â
âHere,â you pushed the tray closer to him, urging him to eat.Â
âThanks,â he mumbled, taking a bite out of one the rice balls, attempting to be respectful by not immediately scarfing the food down. It didnât last long, he finished the meal in just minutes.Â
You of course didnât leave him in the storage room, nor did you tell him to leave. You didnât have the heart for that, he wouldâve been caught with the way that group of men interrogated everyone in the area.Â
âIs this your room?â he asked cautiously after you snuck him upstairs and closed the door to the spacious room. It smelled nice, like jasmine and incense. Clean too, not too cluttered aside from the vanity covered in makeup, hair pins, and perfume bottles.Â
âYeah⊠but youâll be safe here, the Madame never comes into my room,â you assured him.
âYou sure?â He began to look around the room, then back at the door.
âMhm,â you nodded. âWait until the early morning when everyone's asleep to leave, I doubt youâll get caught by then. You can sleep until then, you look tired.â
âYouâre not afraid of me stealing your things?âÂ
âI mean⊠Iâm hoping I gave you enough so you donât,â you responded awkwardly.
âSome logic you got there, princess,â he chuckled.Â
The response shouldâve worried you, but something in you knew you could trust him to be good for the rest of his stay.Â
And he was.Â
He was still asleep in your bed by the time you came back up to your room, after spending the night playing the koto for some regulars. You thought about waking him up, letting him know it was safe for him to leave, but you let him be, figuring he needed the rest.Â
Instead you set some hairpins beside him, along with a little note telling him to sell them so heâd be able to buy his next meal rather than steal it.Â
Afterwards, you curled up next to him and fell asleep. He was warm, it was nice.
He was long gone by the time you woke up, the only evidence that he was ever there were the missing hairpins and note, along with the blanket he used, leaving it folded up neatly beside you.
You never got his name, yet you still remembered him a couple years later during a festival. No longer a pitiful orphan that needed to be helped, but a grown man dressed in black and dark red attire, the kind of attire you were only allowed to wear if you were a high-ranking general in the imperial army.Â
No longer the boy that had to work quickly and hide in the sidelines, but a man that people stepped aside and made room for. A man people were afraid to look at. A man people feared.
You were finally able to put a face on the infamous Ryomen Sukuna, a familiar one at that.Â
And he was finally able to put a face on the Willows Houseâs notorious oiran, the sweet albeit spoiled girl who helped him without hesitation during a time where everyone wanted him dead.Â
Of course he recognized you as fast as you recognized him.
SUM! At the Copacabana, a glamorous Tokyo nightclub, a showgirl and a quiet bartender fall into a secret romance. But in a world of obsession, danger, and power, not all love stories survive the spotlight.
CW: Angst, Major character Death, Angst no comfort, some fluff.
The Copacabana was the kind of place that swallowed men whole.
You could hear it in the hum of jazz pouring from the stage, in the clink of glasses behind the bar, in the sharp pop of a champagne cork right before someone's luck turned. It was Tokyoâs secret jewel, nestled in the heart of a war-brushed city trying desperately to remember how to live. And every night, when the red velvet curtains lifted and the lights dimmed to a warm, honey-gold glow â there she was.
You.
You stepped onto the stage draped in glitter and feathers, your smile a cocktail of danger and delight. The crowd adored you â men watched like wolves in suits, women whispered about you behind fluffed cigarette holders. But none of it reached you. Your eyes never scanned the room for the richest bidder. No, they always paused at the bar.
Nanami.
He stood tall, pressed white shirt and rolled-up sleeves, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light every time he glanced up from the glass he was polishing. Stoic. Handsome in a quiet, exhausting kind of way â like heâd seen too much of the world too soon. He never clapped when you finished a number. Never shouted your name like the others. But he was always there, watching. The kind of man who said everything with a look.
The two of you had a rhythm.
After your set, you'd walk past the bar, not looking at him directly. Heâd set down a drink you hadnât ordered â always exactly what you needed. No words. No names. Just a quiet transaction of comfort between the sparkle of your world and the stillness of his.
That night, the club was electric. Heat in the air, bodies pressed together, jazz horns wailing like sirens. You finished your last number â a sultry version of âFeverâ â and the crowd erupted. The final note hung in the air like smoke.
You took your bow, walked offstage, and slid behind the curtain into the cool darkness. Your heart was still pounding from the lights and the spotlight, the weight of the gaze you felt â his gaze.
Nanami was already at the back hallway when you passed through. âYou sang well tonight,â he murmured. That was the most heâd said all week.
You turned, just slightly, just enough to let your perfume linger between you. âIs that your way of flirting?â
He didnât blink. âIf I flirted with you, youâd know.â
You smiled, slow and teasing. âMaybe I do.â
But before he could respond, the doors of the Copa cracked open with a gust of warm wind and money. You didnât need to look to know who it was. The whole club paused like it had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
Rico.
The yakuza heir, dressed in cream silk with a rose tucked behind one ear. Tall, arrogant, the kind of man who wore power like a second skin. He waltzed in like he owned the place. Maybe he did â no one really knew where the Copacabana got its funding. All they knew was when Rico showed up, trouble followed behind him in gold watches and iron fists.
He walked toward the stage and tipped his head toward you, lips curling in a way that felt like possession.
Nanamiâs voice dropped. âGo to your dressing room.â
âWhy?â you asked, not yet turning.
âBecause men like that donât see you as a person. They see you as something they can win.â
You met his eyes. âAnd what do you see?â
Nanami didnât answer. His jaw ticked. You left without another word.
In your dressing room, roses were already waiting â a dozen long stems tied in a ribbon of blood red. No card, no note. But you didnât need one.
Rico was watching from the floor, like he always did.
And Nanami⊠Nanami was still behind the bar, polishing glasses with hands that were slowly curling into fists.
Backstage was quieter than the stage, but not by much. Dresses rustled on hangers like gossiping ghosts, and the girls chattered between puffs of cigarette smoke and makeup touch-ups.
You ignored them tonight.
You pulled the roses from their vase and dropped them gently into the trash, one by one. They were beautiful. Too beautiful. Like Rico â all surface, no soul.
You knew Nanami had seen them, just like heâd seen the champagne sent to your table the night before, the silk gloves folded neatly on your vanity from âan admirer.â He never asked questions, never made a scene.
But he looked. And that look â calm, dark, furious â sat on your skin longer than any diamond Rico could offer.
Later that night, the club emptied out slowly. The regulars stumbled into taxis, drunk on music and whiskey. The band packed up. The neon signs outside flickered like dying stars.
You didnât go home.
You walked the empty aisles of the Copa in your red silk robe, heels clicking against the marble, like a ghost retracing her last night alive. And you werenât surprised when you saw him.
Nanami was behind the bar, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, tie loose. The lamplight turned his golden hair bronze.
He was counting cash, but his fingers paused when you slid onto the stool in front of him.
âAnother drink?â he asked.
âNo. I want the bartender.â
His brow raised just slightly, like youâd said something too bold, and he was trying not to smirk. âI hear heâs very dull.â
You leaned forward, elbows on the counter. âMaybe Iâm tired of men who talk too much.â
Nanami set the register drawer down. His voice was quiet, low. âThen Iâm exactly your type.â
The silence between you stretched, thick and warm. The club was empty â you could hear the buzz of the ice machine, the tick of the clock over the door. And his heartbeat, you swore, if you leaned in far enough.
âYou didnât like the flowers,â he said finally.
You tilted your head. âThey werenât from you.â
His eyes stayed on yours. Steady. âWould you have liked them if they were?â
You blinked. âWould you ever send me flowers, Kento?â
A pause.
âNo.âHis voice was soft. âIâd bring them. Put them in water. Watch you set them next to your mirror. Then Iâd take you home.â
You felt it â something between your ribs snapping open like a curtain. The silence turned breathless. Heat coiled low in your belly, not from champagne or spotlights â but from him.
Nanami stepped out from behind the bar. Walked toward you slowly, like a man chasing something heâd tried to bury.
âYou think I donât care,â he said, stopping in front of your stool. âThat Iâm just some bartender. But every night, I watch you smile at strangers who donât deserve you. And I think if I say one wrong word, youâll vanish.â
You reached up â fingers brushing his tie, curling it around your hand slowly. âAnd what if I donât want to vanish?â
He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm. âThen tell me.â
You whispered, âStay.â
He kissed you. Slowly. Deeply. Like a man whoâd waited too long and still wasnât sure he had the right. His hands slid to your waist, firm and protective, holding you like youâd disappear if he let go.
The kiss tasted like gin and longing. You curled into him, robe slipping off your shoulder, lips parting in soft gasps. It didnât feel like lust. It felt like finding a harbor in a city full of storm.
When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. âCome home with me.â
You nodded. âIâm tired of being seen by the wrong people.â
And across the street, under the yellow glow of a streetlight, Rico watched from a black car, cigarette burning down to ash between his fingers.
The nights all blurred together in velvet and perfume.
You still danced â sequins on your hips, lashes like daggers, voice like velvet. The crowd never noticed anything different. To them, you were the same glittering showgirl â untouchable, untamed, perfection under gold lights.
But Nanami knew the truth.
He knew how your voice dropped when you slipped through the curtains and whispered, âAre you still here?â
He knew the sound of your heels kicked off under the counter while you sat barefoot on the barstool after hours, sipping his quiet company instead of champagne.
He knew the feel of your fingers tracing the scar under his wrist â the one he never talked about â like you were learning him one soft secret at a time.
It became a routine. Your routine. A glance from across the room during your final number.The quiet nod that meant: meet me after everyoneâs gone.
You didnât go to his apartment, and he never asked you to stay in yours. You met in between â in the spaces no one noticed. The upstairs lounge, long closed to customers. The tiny dressing room behind the back hallway. The freight elevator after closing, where heâd press you against the wall and kiss you like the world outside didnât deserve you.
You never spoke of love. But you didnât need to. He buttoned your coat when you forgot. You fixed his tie with sleepy fingers. Heâd bring you soba when you skipped dinner, and youâd bring him records to play when the club emptied out.
Once, you traced your finger down the bridge of his nose and whispered, âI think you smile when Iâm not looking.â
He replied, âOnly when I know youâre safe.â
One night, after your final set, you found him in the staff hallway, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers and a furrow between his brows.
You walked up, heels silent, and wrapped your arms around his middle.
âTough night?â
He glanced down. âRicoâs been asking questions. The ownerâs nervous. Heâs a good customer.â
âRicoâs a parasite.â
âYouâre not wrong.â
You tilted your head, looking up at him. âAre you worried?â
âYes.â
âAbout me?â
He didnât answer. He just pressed a kiss to your forehead and said, âLet me walk you out.â
Outside, it was raining. He held his coat over both of you as you passed under the neon lights, your hand tangled in his.
At the curb, before the car came, he paused.
âCome home with me.â
You blinked. âButââ
âNot for the night,â he murmured. âFor a while. Until things cool down.â
You looked up at him â this man who never said more than necessary, whose heart lived in the silences. And now he was asking, in his own way, Let me keep you safe.
You nodded. âOkay.â
But before he could kiss you, headlights cut through the rain. A long black car. Tinted windows. Stopped just across the street.
Nanamiâs jaw clenched.
âGet in the cab,â he said quietly.
âKentoââ
âGo.â
You hesitated â then obeyed.
The car didnât follow. But it didnât drive away either.
You watched Nanami from the rearview mirror as the cab pulled off. He stood there, coat soaked through, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the black car like he knew what was coming.
And inside the black car, Rico lit another cigarette, watching you disappear.
Nanamiâs apartment was nothing like the club.
It was tucked above a quiet bookstore on a side street no one walked at night. No neon, no mirrors, no red velvet. Just wood floors, warm light, a bookshelf heavy with dust and paperbacks, and the faint smell of coffee and cologne.
He opened the door and let you step inside first.
You looked around, taking it in. âThis is where you disappear to?â
He gave a quiet shrug. âPeace isnât much to look at.â
You turned to him, the door clicking shut behind you. âItâs beautiful.â
He didnât kiss you right away. Nanami didnât touch you like other men did. He moved slowly, reverently â like you were some sacred thing he couldnât believe had walked into his space.
But when he did close the distance between you, it was with a kind of ache.
He cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb against your cheek. âI shouldâve brought you here sooner.â
You leaned into his hand. âThen do everything slowly now.â
That night, you didnât dance. There were no lights, no music, no eyes. Just Nanami and the quiet.
He made tea instead of pouring wine. He let you wear one of his old white shirts â it smelled like him, and the sleeves swallowed your hands.
You sat on the kitchen counter while he cooked simple noodles, trading stories between bites. You told him about the first time you fell on stage â he laughed, really laughed. You didnât know you loved that sound until now.
He didnât say I love you. But when he brushed your hair behind your ear and whispered, âI sleep better when youâre near,â it felt the same.
You fell asleep in his bed with your head on his chest, his hand resting on your waist, and the world outside finally quiet.
But peace is fragile. And men like Rico donât like being ignored.
The next night at the Copa, a package was waiting in your dressing room. No flowers this time. You unwrapped it slowly. Inside: a single pair of earrings. Diamond. Expensive. Familiar.
They werenât new. They were yours. The ones youâd lost last week, the ones you thought you dropped somewhere backstage. And tucked inside, a note. No name. Just four words written in deep red ink:
"You left something behind."
You didnât tell Nanami right away.
Not because you didnât trust him â but because you knew what heâd do. And because deep down, some part of you feared what Rico would become if Nanami stood between you again.
That night, you danced with a little more tension in your shoulders. Your smile was sharper. And when you walked offstage, Nanami caught your wrist in the hallway.
âYouâre hiding something.â
You swallowed. âItâs fine.â
His eyes flicked to the side â the hallway door was slightly ajar. He stepped forward, crowding you into the wall, his voice low.
âY/N, if something happenedââ
You kissed him. Hard. Quick. Not out of passion â out of panic. A diversion.
âPlease,â you whispered. âJust take me home.â
He stared at you for a long moment â then nodded.
The next morning, the bookstore downstairs opened like normal. Nanami made you toast. He handed you his sweater because the window was cracked and you were cold.
And across the street, inside a nondescript car, Rico sat with a cigarette pressed to his lips. Watching the window. Watching you.
The show went like all the others.
The spotlight kissed your skin. The crowd cheered on cue. You blew kisses to the front tables, dipped your hips with every note, and let them believe you belonged to the stage â untouchable, glittering, theirs.
But something was wrong. Off. Even before the final number, you felt it. A chill that climbed up your spine. A pair of eyes on you that didn't blink. You scanned the room, and there he was. Rico.
Sitting in his usual spot near the stage. Alone this time. No bodyguards. No show. Just watching â a crooked smile under shadow.
When you curtsied, your knees trembled. You didnât wait for applause. You didnât even fake your usual wink toward the bar, where Nanami stood.
You slipped offstage fast â heels clicking too loud against the floor.
You passed other dancers, ignored the usual compliments, and made it into your dressing room in a rush, heart pounding.
You locked the door. Took off your earrings. Sat down. Exhaled. And then â a knock. Before you could answer, the knob turned. A click. The lock didnât hold. Your heart stopped.
The door creaked open, and Rico stepped inside. He shut it behind him.
âBeautiful performance, as always,â he said, voice too low, too smooth.
You stood quickly, robe tugged tighter over your body. âYou shouldnât be back here.â
He tilted his head. âWhy? Youâve let other men in.â
Your breath hitched. âLeave.â
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like a man with all the time in the world.
âYouâre too good for him,â Rico murmured, stopping just inches away. âHe doesn't know what to do with a woman like you.â
You tried to move past him, but his hand shot out â grabbing your arm.
âDonât touch me,â you snapped, voice cracking.
But he didnât let go.
Instead, his other hand grabbed your waist, pulling you close, eyes hungry. âYou donât have to pretend, Y/N. I know youâve thought about it. About me.â
You pushed at his chest, but his grip tightened. Fingers sliding down your side, grazing your thigh through the slit of your costume.
âI said donât touch me!âYou shouted, shoving harder now â panic building.
He grabbed your jaw. âYou think youâre better than me? That you can parade around, act like a tease, andââ
âGet your hands off her.â
The voice behind him stopped the world.
Rico turned just as Nanami stepped into the doorway. No fury. No yelling. Just calm, bone-deep rage written across his face.
Nanamiâs hands were at his sides. Relaxed. Empty. But you saw it â the tension in his shoulders, the promise of violence.
âIt concerns me the moment she says âno.ââ Nanamiâs voice was low, steady. âAnd she said it more than once.â
Rico smirked. âYouâre going to fight me over a showgirl?â
And that was the last straw. In a flash, Nanami slammed him against the vanity mirror, glass cracking behind Ricoâs shoulder.
âCall her that again,â Nanami growled, âand Iâll break your jaw before your men even get up the stairs.â
You fell back into the chair, trembling, arms wrapped around yourself, mascara streaking down your cheeks.
Rico tried to push back, but Nanami punched him, clean and brutal â blood blooming from Ricoâs nose like a curse. He hit the floor, coughing, stunned.
Nanami didnât wait.
He walked over to you, crouched low, hands hovering just over your arms. âY/N.â
Your eyes filled again. You nodded â you were okay, but only now that he was here.
He lifted your robe gently. âLetâs get you out of here.â
You didnât speak until you were in the alley behind the club, wrapped in his coat, your body pressed to his side.
âThank you,â you whispered.
His voice broke. âI shouldâve gotten to you sooner.â
You turned to him. âIf you hadnât come in when you didâŠâ
He touched your face, thumb brushing away a tear. âHe wonât touch you again.â
But behind the cracked mirror in your dressing room, Rico bled â and smiled. Because now it was war.
It was supposed to be a normal night. You hadnât performed in two days â Nanami made sure of it. The bruises on your arms were gone now, but the shadow under your eyes lingered. You hadnât slept much. Neither had he.
The Copa was quieter tonight. Almost too quiet.
Nanami stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled, eyes tracking the room like a man waiting for a storm. He hadnât touched you all night â not with his hands, but with his gaze. And that was enough.
You stayed in the staff hallway, peeking between the curtain slits every so often. The band was playing soft. No sign of Rico. You let yourself breathe.
Midnight came. Then 12:10. And thatâs when it happened. The front doors slammed open. Rico. His suit was white. Snow white. Tailored. Clean. He walked like a man headed toward something heâd already decided.
You werenât even on stage â you were still behind the curtain when it all exploded.
Nanami clocked him instantly. Set down his rag. Stepped forward from behind the bar. Rico moved faster. He pulled a gun from his coat â no yelling, no warning. His eyes locked on Nanami like the entire room had ceased to matter.
âYou think you won, bartender?â
Chairs scraped. People screamed. Drinks shattered.
Nanami didnât flinch. âYou come here with a gun?â
âYou took something from me,â Rico growled. âSo Iâm taking it back.â
He raised the pistol. Time split open. You saw it before you could scream â before you could run â that tiny motion in Ricoâs shoulder, the twitch of a finger.
Bang.
The sound cracked like thunder through the club. Nanami staggered. Clutched his chest. Blood bloomed. The room fell to chaos.
You ran â heels forgotten, robe trailing behind you. You shoved through tables, through screams, through gasps and flashes of red light.
He was on the ground when you reached him. Eyes still open. Breathing, barely.
âKen,â you choked, dropping to your knees. Your hands found his face, his chest, pressing against the wound, but the blood kept coming.
âY/Nââ he coughed. âIâm okayââ
âYouâre not!â You sobbed, voice shaking. âDonât say that. Donâtâdonât leave me.â
He looked at you then â even in pain, even bleeding â and tried to lift his hand to your cheek.
âYou have to get out of here,â he said. âBefore heââ
But Rico was already gone. He hadnât waited. He hadnât needed to. He just wanted to hurt you â and he had.
They took Nanami away in an ambulance.You went with him, covered in his blood. Still in costume. The lights of the Copacabana flickered behind you like a memory you couldnât stop reliving.
They buried him in a quiet cemetery outside the city.
No one from the club came. Just you, and a man from the bookstore downstairs who didnât know his first name â only that he made strong coffee and paid rent early.
You wore black. Not for tradition, but because the world felt dimmer now, and you couldnât bear the thought of brightening it.
Weeks passed. The Copacabana didnât close. Clubs like that never did. It rolled on â show after show, drink after drink, swallowing pain like ice.
You returned to the stage the way a ghost haunts a hallway. Quietly. Without sound. The costume still fit. The lights still hit you just right. The men still cheered.
But the sparkle was gone. Not dimmed â gone. You didnât wink anymore. You didnât laugh when the band made mistakes. You didnât stop at the bar after curtain call.
Because the bar was empty now. His spot was empty. The glass rack still held one untouched drink â the one he used to make for you without asking.
âY/N,â one of the girls whispered one night backstage, âyou donât have to keep coming back. You could leave.â
You looked at her and smiled â a brittle, tired thing. âLeave what?â
There was nothing beyond the Copa. Not anymore. You had poured your love into one man. And Rico had taken him from you with one shot. And no one had seen him since.
You wore the same red dress every Saturday. The one from your last show with him. The feathers had frayed. The sequins were falling off. Your lipstick never reached the corners of your mouth the way it used to. But still, you danced. Because you didnât know how to stop.
Sometimes, when the club quieted, when the crowd thinned and the piano softened into smoke, you sat at the bar. Alone. You ordered the drink he used to make. You turned toward the empty stool.
And you waited. Just in case he might come back. Just in case death was temporary, and love could break the rules of the world.
But he never did. And so you sat there, every Saturday, a showgirl in a faded red dress, lips painted like a war wound, eyes fixed on nothing.
Still beautiful. Still broken. Still at the Copacabana.
..BUT THAT WAS 30 YEARS AGO, WHEN THEY USE TO HAVE A SHOW
best friend nanami who finds you in his living room, sobbing. your pretty eyes filled with tears, your knees brought to your chest. he had just gotten off work, came straight home and his heart dropped seeing you like this.
"hey, what happened?" he dropped his belongings and practically sprinted towards you. kneeling in front of you, crouched down, looking at you with an intense worry. he brings a soft hand up to your cheek and swipes a tear away.
you burst out in tears again, telling him about your shit day - and too top it off, your new dress you bought was too small to fit into. history of insecurities came back and hit you quick. nanamis heart sank at that, he loved your body, thought it was perfect. "you're fucking perfect."
"I'm big though!" you whine, pout forming on your lips whilst you look up at him with tears. "no you're not, you're just not one of those skinny supermodels you compare yourself too. and that's fine- its good. you shouldn't look like that."
he says towards you, his fingers tracing your cheek. "okay but boys like that." you huff once to which he rolls his eyes.
his jaw clenching the slightest, "some boys do, yeah. but real men don't care what you look like, and will see that you're beautiful regardless."
Ex Husband!Toji who you left because he was... bad. Submerged in debt, addicted to gambling and alcohol, and who disappeared one day right after your youngest son, Megumi, turned five.
Ex Husband!Toji who comes back one day. A big bouquet in hand, a job as a security guard in the bag, and the promise that he has changed. Who has acquired a scar over the lip.
Ex Husband!Toji who promises, swears and gives proof that he has never been with another woman ever since you two divorced. Who claims that the only woman he could ever dream of being in bed with is you.
Ex Husband!Toji who fucks you so hard in the bed you once shared, the bed you will share again. Who manhandles you in the meanest mating press, full nelsons, anything you could imagine.
Ex Husband!Toji who hasn't changed a bit since you two last saw each other. Muscles still chiseled, arms as big as your head, firm chest and fat cock. Although you could swear that he has grown down there ever since you last saw him, or not, you could be hallucinating at the belly bulge that pokes from your insides whenever his cock is buried deep inside.
Ex Husband!Toji who is a thousand times more possessive than you remember, practically barking at whatever man that isn't him or Megumi gets too close to you.
Ex Husband!Toji who can only grin when a lanky looking nineteen year old knocks on his door claiming he is going to kick his ass. Who goes outside and kicks him on the ground, not escaping a busted lip and a bruise on the cheekbone. And who gives you the nastiest french kiss right as the white haired menace is carried away by his friends.
Ex Husband!Toji who promises to fuck another baby into you. Just for good measure, for the bad time he made you spend while watching that little boy get beat up. Who gropes at your breasts, suckling at the nipple and saying the nastiest shit you've ever heard. "Can't wait for this to gimme milk, our lil' baby will have to share with papa." Absolutely foul.
Ex Husband!Toji who snores like a fucking train and sleeps like a bear. Who clings to your body, completely engulfing you. A blessing in the winters, a curse in the summers. Who you can't wake up no matter you much you squirm and thrash in his embrace, and who may or may not have been woken up with a cold glass of water thrown to his face... with Megumi's assistance, of course.
Ex Husband!Toji who gets a boner at how your body has changed. At how you have new curves, new edges, new stretch marks and pretty sun kiss marks all over your skin. Who traces them with rough, calloused fingers while you sleep.
Ex Husband!Toji who can't get enough of your cooking. And who loves to circle your waist with his arms and lean his chin over your shoulder as you cook. Who may or may not also grind himself all over the curve of your ass while doing all that.
Goodbye barely legal Gojo, you'll do better in heaven... I guess.
sukuna had promised himself eons ago that the next time he finds you, wherever and whenever it is, he will kill you.
but when he gets the consciousness to take peaks of the modern world from his vessels body, he finds himself hesitating. the way you look so bright eyed and bushy tailed nerves him. the way you work with the kids erks him with the memories of wanting his own years in the past. one with your eyes and his hair.
so, when he gets his full form, four arms and all, it bothers him how his body refuses to obey him and how it strains him with an odd, chest tightening feeling when he sees you bloodiedâ all because of him. youâre gasping for air, yet you remain in your stance, ready to give your life to protect some stupid, puny, pitiful children and the crumbling of humanity.
you donât recognize him as ryomen. you recognize him as sukuna, the king of curses; the one who had killed satoru gojo, the one who has killed countless amount of bystanders and your own colleagues.
sukuna stands idly in front of you, arms soaked and dripping with blood from the various bodies he had slaughtered. the hot wind blows your hair away from your face, and your legs tremble at the late realization of your situation. you were face to face with ryomen sukuna. you, a sorcerer not even good enough to be considered one, in a one on one with ryomen sukuna.
a moment passesâ a heartbeatâ before he takes a step forward, all four arms hanging loosely on his sides and you freeze, unable to move your stiff legs.
â⊠iâve searched for years.â
â⊠what ?â your words tremble past your lips, breathless. you can feel your hands shake, cold sweat forming on the sides of your forehead as your hands get clammy. as he steps with slow, menacing strides, you do the opposite and take action in distancing yourself, moving back with a quick step of your legs. but sukuna doesnât budge, like he knows that thereâs no where to escape from him.
his face scrunches in slight disappointment. you look the same. you sound the same. hell, even the way youâre standing is the same as it was years ago. but you canât remember him. heâs not your ryomen, heâs nothing but a killer, a curse that wonât leave your side.
âperhaps your puny little human brain doesnât remember.â he mumbles under his breath, stopping just a few feet away from you, enough for you to get a good look at him, but far enough to keep a safe distance.
âthe hell are you talking about.â you spat out, digging your shoes into the smoldering dirt. youâre left without a response, the silence deafening as your ears ring and your mind is all overâ what in the world is this guy saying ? what do you do in this situation ? where are the kids ?
you can see sukunaâs jaw clench tight, the muscles in his face hardening as he curls up his fists, feeling his fingers twitch. in the agony of it all, sukuna wishes that for once, just once, youâll see him the way you once did. with gentle eyes and soft smiles. and in the heat of the moment, he comes to a slow, gut wrenching conclusion: he canât bring himself to fulfill his own promise. for the first time in all his years of existence, living with rage scorching through his body, he cannot bring himself to grant his own wishes of your death by his hands.
perhaps, he thinks, but just for a moment, death by his hands isnât something that would satisfy his desire of ⊠whatever this was.
so, with a heavy heart, one carved and etched with your name, he takes a good look at your face for a second longer before turning his back towards you, making another promise to himself. no matter what he does today in shibuya, no matter what the circumstance is, he will not be turning around to take a second glance at you. heâll carry the burden of lifeâs consequences with clenched fists and bloodied hands if it means that your death does not happen by him. if it means that the only memory he ever has of you is of when the universe was kinder to him, then heâll let you die within shibuyas causes.
There is no doubt that Nanami loves you more than his life and will never hurt you physically or mentally. It simply cannot occur to him. Because you are his beautiful wife who has lit up his life with your warmth. You have always been so patient, gentle, and loving to him. He appreciates it immensely. That is why he treats you very gently and lovingly. And of course, as his good wife, you know all his weaknesses. You know what worries him, stresses him, upsets him, makes him happy, and relaxes him. And what excites him. You know that Kento is an absolute gentleman. Not only in events, but also in actions. He is restrained, so restrained. And the most reserved people want to fall the most. And of course you want Nanami to fall. A very dirty fall. You wanted to know how far Nanami could fall in his desires, dreams, fetishes. And I think you found out.
Here, your body is thrown over his knee. Your feet, dressed in snow-white knee-highs with pink lace, barely touch the floor. Your knees rub uncomfortably against the edges of the bed. Your cheek is pressed against a bed linen. You breathe heavily. And your thighs are shamelessly lying on Nanami's knee. The sharpest part of the kneecap rubs your clit through his pants, tormenting it sweetly.
"You're such a grown human, a married woman, and you act like a little girl," Kento's hoarse voice sounds almost like a teacher scolding a student. He pulls back a little and releases the elastic, with a sharp pop on the skin of your pantaloons.
These damn pantaloons, which he doesn't know where the hell you bought them. Pastel pink, embroidered with light lace, with milky-coloured bows. And they are painfully short, almost covering part of your ass. If you had told him earlier that you were going to buy something so "childish," he would have laughed indulgently, saying that it was all nonsense for costumes. But here he is, tired from work, and the only thing he wanted was to eat delicious food, have a bath, and fall asleep with you on his shoulder with the TV on. It turned out that you had completely different plans. When he came home, he didn't smell the distinctive smell of food. Although you don't have to cook every day, it was Friday. You always cooked something new on Fridays, it was your little ritual to relieve stress after a long week at work. Instead, Nanami heard a soft sound coming from the shared bedroom. Listening closely, he realized it was moaning. Your moans. Without taking off his shoes, he quickly headed to the room. God, those moans were so pornographic, as if they were specially made to attract him. When Kento opened the door, he saw the most unexpected (beautiful) picture before him. His beloved wife was lying among the crumpled blankets and was making sweet moans along with his name. One hand was slipped into her pink vulgar pantaloons, and the other hand teased her nipple bud through her floral T-shirt.
"Dear?" Kento could hardly speak more than one word after such a performance.
"AhâŠ.KentoâŠmmmâŠso bad"
You played dirty, very dirty. But what can you do? You were Mrs. Nanami, and Mrs. Nanami always gets what she wants.
So finally you are thrown over your husband's leg and receive your punishment.
"I'm not a little girl," you whine.
"Really?" Kento scoffs and jerks his leg a little, making you ride on his knee like a light rag, "then why are you wearing such clothes?"
You bit your lip, trying not to show that you were already whimpering from such light stimulation. But what could you say? That you had done it on purpose because you wanted your husband to spank you like a whore?
"You have to answer when you are asked," Nanami's big hand slapped your thighs, which were exposed like a dog, "dear."
And then you couldn't hold back a moan and cried out loud. The heat from his slap felt so good, it pinched your skin so pleasantly and made you even wetter. God, you're wants more.
"I just miss you sometimes, Ken"
"So, you decided to undress like a prostitute and violate your marriage duty?"
You started to rub your throbbing clit against his knee. But Kento stopped you by abruptly grabbing the fabric of the underwear and pulling it up. Oh God, the delicate fabric gathered in a thin fold and hit your clit directly.
"Calm down" Nanami's tone became colder, but at the same time hotter.
"Mph, Kento⊠how could I have violated my marriage duty⊠hmm?" you whimper in frustration.
"Touching yourself without permission" he hit your thighs again
"I'm sorry," you barely mumbled.
"Excuse me? Oh no, no, darling, girls like you need a lesson." Nanami starts to take off your underwear, revealing your plump thighs. And of course you give in to him. He squeezes your fat and starts slapping. From time to time, he rides you on his knee. Kento's palm is so big, it fits you so well. Nanami's mind goes blank when his perfect wife becomes such a whore. And he can do whatever he wants to her, and she won't mind. You moan desperately, receiving incredible pleasure. You feel so small and stupid, completely in his hands. A trickle of saliva is coming out of your mouth, and, yes, you look like a bitch in heat. But how can you not, when you are receiving the most pleasant humiliation.
Nanami spreads your legs wider and starts slapping on your sore pussy.
"Look, you've already wet your pants, dear," another slap
"Uh⊠sorry⊠KenâŠ"
"Shhh⊠your husband will take care of you"
Oh, yes. You achieved what you wanted.
Nanami pushes his middle finger into your soaked walls, and it's no surprise that he enters without any difficulty. So, without any foreplay, Kento inserts his second finger. You feel hot as the cold of the golden wedding ring rubs against your walls. It's another proof that you belong to him, and it makes you absolutely giddy.
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