• May’s account is a breath of fresh air if you’re looking for sfw centric works on Tumblr!
Proficient in multifandoms, May has amazing works in: Jujutsu Kaisen, Demon Slayer, Attack On Titan, Haikyuu, Chainsaw Man, Tokyo Revengers and lovely original works too!!
some of the works for you to sift through <3
⤷ ゛practice kissing your best friend!Kento ˎˊ˗
⤷ ゛Satoru as your chaotic lab partner ˎˊ˗
⤷ ゛Suguru who loves his mother dearly ˎˊ˗
A wide assortment of sfw works, both longfics and drabbles and a smattering few SMAUs are by the sweetest May for you to enjoy, go give them some love!
️⟡ make sure you read the rules before you follow .ᐟ
── with a little sweet and simple numbing me ♡‧₊ ⸝⸝
♡.ᐟ Fem! Reader x N. Kento
☽☾ thigh riding ft. Emo!Kento ☽☾ smut ☽☾ fluff ☽☾ does grinding on abs count? ☽☾ MDNI please <3 ☽☾ Satoru catching random strays ☽☾
“Do you think my side bangs are funny?”
You stopped short at your darling’s concerned question, hands pausing at his belt loop just for you to peer up at him from your position busy straddling his thighs.
“Of course not!” You frowned, as you slid your hands up his torso to brush his hair aside from his face, “Why do you ask, Ken?”
Kento looked away, sheepish to even pop the question, but you were nothing if not stubborn, and you thumbed through his hair, pulling the clip away to free his hair from their restraint, only to lightly pull at the ends again, “Kento.” You asked again, the pressing lilt creeping into your syllables.
Kento nibbled his lips at your insistence, gnawing at his labret piercing over and over, until he finally met your eyes. And, oh, his hazel eyes were clouded with self-consciousness, one that you wanted to clear away from his vision. He was as stunning as he was, perfect in your eyes.
“Who said that, baby?” You asked again, dragging yourself up along his reclined frame, leaning on the headboard of your bed.
“Satoru,” he mumbled softly, and you could see how the admission made him flush shamefully, the tips of his ears and cheeks tinged red.
You squinted in disbelief.
“Oh, really?” You straightened up, “I’ll show that nerd,” you huffed, irate and puffed up at the thought of that twink annoying your boyfriend for no reason whatsoever, “Has he looked at his fuckass braces—”
Kento tried intervening, “Darling—”
“No, no, no,” you insisted, “Just because he has bagged a baddie in the form of my amazing sister, he isn’t supposed to think he’ll get away with clowning people while looking like that.” The irritation had you clenching your fists.
You liked Satoru, you really did. He was like that un-neutered dog who loved to hump on pillows and gave excellent cuddles — but in a human format and you adored him. Yes, you did. It was hard to believe, but he was one of your best friends, and that is exactly why he would be getting his ass beat by you.
“I need to have a talk with Aneki.” How he managed to win her in all her biker glory… you could never tell. But well, nerds had their own secrets, or whatever.
“You don’t have to, my love.” Kento sighed endearingly, pulling you down to face him, as he leaned down to pepper kisses along your collarbone. The metal of his tongue barbell laved over your hickey-sensitive skin, making you shiver and limp closer in his arms, which, of course, had him holding you even nearer until your breath mixed with his, hot and warm in the cold room. The sensation robbed you of words, keeping you grounded only to his touch, only to his being, hooked on him, him, him.
His arm snaked around your waist, tugging you up and up, until you were straddling his hips, the cotton of his jeans and the belly button ring chafing the inside of your thighs at the heady friction.
Kento brushed your hair back, creating a path for his lips to traverse over — gently, up he went from your collarbones, to your neck, and along the column of your throat — licking, biting, nibbling, sucking, drunk on the flavour of your touch.
“You’re so sweet, darling.” He mumbled, voice muffled in the crook of your neck. Your hands were busy in his hair too, one there, playing with his soft strands, entangled in the accessory of his scaffold piercing and the other still firm on his belt loop. You had to get your taste too, you know?
Fervently, you extracted yourself from his hold, grinding low on his hips, the action pulling a needy groan from his throat. Kento whined when you wrenched his head away, depriving him of his sustenance, “Darling…” he looked up at you, eyes wide and begging, fiddling with the hem of the sleeve of your top in permission, “Please?”
You were weak to his beseeches, and to be fair, did you even want to say no to this?
When he lifted the cloth off of you, you let him, following his action and raising your arm for ease.
Now, you mirrored each other. You in your denim shorts and lace camisole, and him in just his shirtless glory. You kissed him, helplessly, tasting gems on your tongue. Your hands were still wandering, on his abs, feeling the ridges of firm muscles beneath your palm.
But.
When you pulled away half-heartedly, it was with a ragged gasp, and a dying moan on both of your throat. Kento’s eyes were hooded, and weighted with the question of the parting. But realisation drew to him as you leaned down, unbuckling his belt. He let you, up until you lowered his zipper and his hand shot down to pull yours away before you could lower them completely.
“No, no, darling, no. Not that. Not now.” He berated gently, sitting up on his elbow to pull you away from the precarious position. His hair fell in gentle near-waves around his face, framing the flush on them with a blonde glow that had you wanting to hold him in your arms forever.
“That’s not fair.” You pouted, barely keeping the whine out from your tone.
Kento kissed you again, a soft chuckle on his lips, before he cupped your cheeks and pulled you above him, your chest to his, pressed in a heated embrace.
“I know darling, but I can’t have you doing that.”
“But why?” You whined this time, shameless and with a barely disguised greed for the taste and feel of him on your tongue. He had this habit of depriving you of him sometimes, especially since you had discovered the nice metal of his King’s Crown barbell on his flushing pink tip. Not that you complained when he was inside you. You could almost imagine the angle and the delicious scrap of metal against your walls.
Fuck.
You clenched your thighs — useless, since he had you straddling him — and Kento caught that, raising an eyebrow in the knowledge of just what exactly you were thinking, he knew you that well.
“Patience, darling.” He thumbed your lips, before biting the corner of them and then quickly pressing a kiss on them to soothe the sting, “I can’t have you making me come before I’ve had you writhing, no?”
Unfair. So unfair. Your darling was nothing but unfair, even in the pleasure he gave you so well, and so much. Like he was trying to drown you in its throes.
“It’s insane that you can dress like this, and be Emo and still call me darling and all that romantic stuff.” You huffed, leaning into his touch.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, but then again,” You shrugged, “You did play Orpheus for the Hadestown Musical last year, so it’s kinda… not hard to believe that you’d be a hopeless romantic.”
“Mhmm,” Kento pulled away from this half done hickey under your ear, leaving you gasping and wrecked with just the simple suction, “And what does my Eurydice have to say about that?”
You were pretty sure you had the costumes stowed away somewhere in your room here.
“Nothing, except the fact that I need you astronomically right now, and I’d fight Cerberus if I could, to prove that but—” You pressed down on his abs, and you were sure he felt the dampness of your cunt even over the fabric, “Are you listening to me Ken?”
“Message h–heard, my darling. Fuck. Darling—” He interrupted with a moan, eyes heavy lidded and drugged, thumb playing with the underside of your breast in small circles, “Loud and clear.”
“Good,” you huffed, resuming your grinding, watching as the hazels of his eyes disappeared little by little behind the eclipsing onyx pupils, “Just don’t snag the fabric of my panties this time with your barbell — they’re lace.” You warned. Kento could be a little excited with you, and you knew just how much he liked to drag every movement until either of you two, or both of you were starving for the actual dish and to get the taste.
He nodded dutifully, pressing one last kiss to your lips, and to your forehead in an apology of whatever he was going to do to you now, and braced his hands on your hips — you could feel how hard he was past the restraint of his jeans, still looking up at you from beneath his lashes reverently.
“May I, my love?” He whispered, and you only ever had to hear the first few syllables before you were nodding ardently.
The minute he got your permission, Kento was like a man on a mission. In one quick move, he had the position of you two flipped. Gone was the fumbling touch from his fingertips, replaced with a conviction and a plan. Oh, you would have to take a break tomorrow, you knew it.
“Hands against the headboard, please, darling.” He instructed slowly, and you were quick to follow, bracing the wood even though you knew it wouldn’t be enough. Kento knew that too, and after a quick glance, he rectified, “Hold on to me, instead, my love.” Kissing your palm, he grabbed your wrist to place them around his neck and shoulder as he settled between your thighs.
Soft little whimpers left you as his kisses decorated up your legs, to the inside of your thighs. The metal stung across the warmth of your skin, but it turned you on even more if nothing else.
“Is this okay?” He checked with you again when you felt his hands fiddling with your denim shorts. You nodded, but Kento clicked his tongue in disapproval, “Words, darling, don’t go quiet on me now.”
You shivered, suppressing a moan when his tongue licked languidly but no less insistently over your waistband and down your lace set, yet, you answered, blinking through the fog of the settling sensitivity, “Yeah — it’s okay. It’s so okay, Ken.”
That awarded you another press of his lips, in time for his hands to gently ease your shorts down your trembling legs, a kiss to every inch of your skin he exposed.
“Wider, darling—” he murmured, pulling one leg over his shoulder and letting you angle your position comfortably, which you did and — “There we go. So well, my love.” Kento’s words were drugged with awe, in every motion you followed at his instruction.
You tugged at his hair again, pulling him closer — impossibly closer — just to hear him whimper.
“Kento.” This beseech was yours, needy and flushed. God, did he ever plan to stop teasing you?
He looked up, coy and unrepentant, a smirk on his lips, “Wait a little, darling, let me savour my meal, yeah?”
A/N: consider this my entry to the college!JJK verse pls dont let this flop ily <3 I kept seeing Emo Choso and although he is cute guys are we forgetting the OG Gerard Way fanboy Nanami Kento hello
You stirred one evening as the fire dimmed low, your gaze drifting lazily toward the shadow he cast across the floor. “You’re still there.”
Sukuna’s head tilted slightly in your direction, but he didn’t answer. He merely nodded back at you from the slit. Your lips curved faintly, tired but warm. “You’re always still there.”
He grunted in response, shifting his shoulders against the wall. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else, my lady.”
The blunt honesty of it caught you off guard. A quiet laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. But the laughter quickly dissolved into coughing. Your shoulders shook with it, the fragile sound echoing painfully through the quiet room.
Sukuna stiffened. His sharp scarlet eyes darted toward the bedside table where the water pitcher sat untouched. He stared at it as if the object itself had personally offended him. For several long seconds he didn’t move.
GENRE: alternate universe - historical au;
WARNING/S: heian sukuna au, nsfw, r18, angst, fluff, romance, slow burn, tragedy, bittersweet, hurt no comfort, childhood, friendship, young love, class differences, illness, depiction and mention of illness, marriage, devotion, grief, emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanism, loyalty, revenge, murder, war, violence, blood, massacre, vengence, mention and depiction of murder, mention and depiction of massacre, mention and depiction of blood, mention and depiction of alcohol, mention of suicide, snow imagery, fire imagery, blood imagery, tattoos, unfair systems, servant! sukuna, daughter of the lord! reader;
WORDS: 24k words.
NOTE: if you've ever read the other woman series, this is another universe of heian sukuna and concubine reader. i began to write this in august last year when i saw the kny film and got distracted. i only finished it recently. akaza and koyuki were the inspiration here. unfortunately, its more bittersweet here than that. either way, i hope you bear with me. ill be attending a wedding, you'll have to wait for the next installment. anyway, enjoy!!! i love you all <3
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kayu's playlist — side 4500;
THE WINTER HAS LASTED TOO LONG. Everyone has felt restless more and more that nothing can be but the bitter cold. These many days, the snow fell in restless flurries, drifting from a sky the color of ash.
It came too easily this season, more than last year. The little bits kept piling over the earth in silence, becoming more of a monstrosity as it started swallowing the world until even sound seemed muted. But there was no reason to stop. Not now. Not ever.
The cold gnawed at his skin, sank through flesh, down to the marrow. Each breath burned, a thin cloud of frost trailing behind him, proof that he was still alive. Although, it was obvious that it was only life echoing so barely.
To stand still was to surrender, and surrender meant death. And the bitter, brutish cold had no room to be merciful. As much as the world. He needed warmth, needed fire in his veins, and there was only one way he had ever known how to find it.
He had to move. He had to hunt. Hunger pressed sharp and merciless inside him, an emptiness that would not wait. If there was nothing to take, then he would never be full; if there was no life to steal, then the world would consume him instead.
So he pressed forward, leaving behind the white silence of snow with each step, leaving behind hesitation. Ryomen Sukuna had to do it. Otherwise, he was nothing. Otherwise, he was already dead. And he would not deal with being dead, not like this.
Ryomen Sukuna was still too young to let the bitterness of the cold become everything in his world. Far too young to have the weight of survival carved into his flesh, just as much, he was truly too young to wear the tattoos that marked him as desperate, as damned.
But the choice had never been his.
Still, he bore them anyway, with pride.
Because the world has no other way to live.
The crowd saw only a criminal. Perhaps not even a boy. But someone who was grown enough to be scalped and caught, brought before the powerful to be chastised and to be mocked. He was nothing more than a troublemaker, a thief.
He, a boy, was a notorious thief who deserved every lash of any weapon they could find, every insult and brazen anguish they could spat in his face. It somehow never ends, and when he stopped thinking that they would ever stop.
They struck him, over and over, until the sting blurred into numbness. He did not cry out, at least not anymore. Nothing was going to change if he did cry out. He had learned long ago there was no mercy in sound. His only thought was the same as it had always been the first time.
Endure. Live. No matter the pain.
Then, through the roar of voices, came something unexpected.
“Stop this, please!”
It was not a command barked in anger, nor a jeer to taunt him further. It was softer than any of the gruff words that came to cuss his existence out. The tone was far younger than one could have imagined, that sort of tenderness that came from a voice that had no place in a place like this.
The weapons were suddenly withdrawn, their shadows fractured and faltered away. One by one, the strikes ceased. The insults died on tongues as a hush spread, uneasy and heavy. A shadow fell across him, blotting out the pale light.
With what little strength remained, Sukuna forced open his swollen eye. In the blink of his wounded eye, he saw the spiral of silk before him echoing in threads of bright colors. They were the colors only someone of privilege would wear.
His vision swam, dark at the edges, as though the world itself was closing in on him. Still, he forced his head to turn. The movement tore a quiet groan from his throat, pain splintering through his skull, but he endured it. He had endured worse. He needed to see it. He needed to understand what this moment had become.
His wounded eye lifted, sluggish and swollen, until it found you.
You were small. Far smaller than the men who towered around him, far smaller than the one who had struck him again and again without hesitation. Yet you did not tremble. You did not shrink back. You stood there as though the earth itself had chosen you as its pillar.
“Enough, already, please.” Your voice had lost its earlier shake. It rang clear now, fragile only in sound, not in resolve. “He’s had enough, father.”
A heavy silence followed.
“Move aside.” Your father’s voice cut through it like a blade drawn from its sheath in a manner so deep, so final. It could bring shivers to someone who could see it. The magistrate’s robes brushed the dirt as he stepped forward, rich fabric against stained earth.
“That boy is a criminal, daughter. He deserves his punishment.”
Criminal.
The word drifted through Sukuna’s haze like smoke. He tasted iron when he exhaled, blood slick against his tongue. He might have laughed if his ribs did not feel cracked beneath his skin. You did not move. Instead, you stepped closer. You stepped closer to him, closer to danger that could harm you. Yet you did not falter, placing yourself between him and the man who held authority over the entire town.
“He’s a child like myself, father.” Louder now. The crowd heard you. They could not pretend not to. “He’s a starving child. And you beat him as if he were a beast.”
The murmurs began like wind through dry leaves. It was uncertain, so brittle. Many of the present faces all but shifted. Their eyes flickered in many directions. Some glanced at the bruises on his body. Others looked at your father, as if seeing him for the first time not as a judge, but as a man.
The magistrate’s jaw tightened. His shadow fell long over both of you. He acted almost like you were not his daughter, but an accomplice to a criminal. “You speak out of turn, girl.” he said, voice cold and controlled. “This one had the gall….the arrogance, to steal from the markets. Thieves earn their stripes. That is the law.”
Law. Sukuna’s thoughts dragged through the word like a blade through mud. Law was only a whip in different hands. Law was power wrapped in ink and called righteousness. Law had never fed him when his stomach clawed at itself in the night. Law had never spared him.
He forced a breath through split lips.
It sounded almost like a laugh.
Almost.
And then you spoke again. “Then your law is cruel.”
The words did not shout. They did not need to. They struck harder than any blow. The air seemed to fracture around you. A gasp rippled outward. Someone dropped something, like wood against stone. Even the birds perched along the rooftops startled into flight.
Your father’s hand clenched at his side. Not in hesitation and not even in the sense of doubt. Instead, he did so in fury. And yet, you did not flinch. Sukuna felt something shift within him, something unfamiliar and sharp. Not pain. Not hatred.
Someone had spoken for him. No one had ever done that before. And perhaps that is why it almost turned the world into its head. No one moved or spoke. They remained static in the face of something so new to them.
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick as smoke. The entire square held its breath, waiting to see whether courage would be crushed beneath authority, as it so often was. You turned then, not away from your father, but toward him fully.
Slowly, deliberately, with all the grace that could only come from a girl of high birth, you let your silks fall alone with your body and did what no girl like you should be doing, you let yourself kneel. Gasps came and went throughout the lines of people gathered among you.
Your knees touched the dirt beside Sukuna’s own thawing blood. You bowed your head, but not your spirit. You held firm,still not looking up to see your father’s likely disgruntled face. But you did not care. That’s how it looked to the fuschia haired boy.
“Father.” you said, steady and fierce all at once. “Give him a chance. That’s all I ask.”
Your voice did not break. And for the first time in his battered, merciless life, Ryomen Sukuna felt something far more dangerous than pain stir inside his chest. Something so brutish and so disturbingly new. And he knew that was hope.
Everyone looked towards your lord father as he stood there. Your father, the endlessly proud and mighty magistrate’s expression hardened. One could feel the way his jaw became as tight as stone. His fist was clenched so hard, that certainly soon there would be blood echoing from its flesh.
“A chance?” His voice rumbled like thunder. “Criminals cannot change. They are born liars, born thieves. He is already marked. Those tattoos prove it. Mercy will not wash them away.”
Your chin lifted. “Then I will prove you wrong.”
A ripple of shock swept through the onlookers. Even Sukuna, his vision blurred and body broken, felt something pierce the fog of his pain. Prove? For him? He almost wanted to laugh, but his lips were too cracked, his chest too hollow.
The magistrate stared down at you, incredulous. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth twisted in something like a bitter smile. “Prove it? And how, child, do you expect to prove such a thing? How will you make a creature like this…change?”
You didn’t hesitate. Your voice rang out, fierce and clear enough for all to hear. You finally raised your head in defiance, showing him everything that echoes with your strident spirit. “By letting him serve me! Let him be my servant!”
The words struck harder than any club. The crowd erupted in whispers, shock and disapproval rising like smoke. Sukuna’s swollen eyes widened as he stared at you, disbelieving.
Your father’s laughter broke through it all, low and humorless. “Would you be so eager to lower yourself to keep such filth at your side? Do you even know what you are saying?”
“I do, father.” you said firmly, stepping closer to Sukuna, shielding him with your presence again. “And I will not take it back. I will not stand here until you let me do as I urge. Let him serve me, and I will make you see he can change.”
For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. It wasn’t warmth, at least not yet. If anything, it was more of a shock. A pandemonium of confusion, and something far more dangerous. Because in that moment, someone had not only defended him and here they were, here you were, claiming him.
The crowd buzzed like hornets stirred from a nest, their whispers sharp and disbelieving. A servant? That filthy boy? Your father’s laughter faded into a hard silence. His eyes narrowed, his hand clenching the staff at his side.
“You would shame me before my own people, daughter?” he said, his voice heavy with restrained fury. “Do you even understand what you’re asking? To place this wretch in your household, at your table, near your chambers? He will spit on your kindness and cut your throat the moment you turn away.”
You did not flinch. “Then let him try. If he betrays me, I will bear it. But until then, he is mine to command. My servant.”
The words echoed, cutting through the murmurs, and for the first time in his short, bitter life, Sukuna felt the heat of someone’s claim not as condemnation, but as protection. His cracked lips parted, though no words came. His throat was too raw, his pride too broken. He could only watch you, baffled, aching, and strangely furious all at once.
The magistrate’s gaze burned into you. “You would gamble your honor, our name, on such a boy of mischief, a horrid thief?”
You lifted your chin. “Yes. On him.”
The pause that followed stretched long and unbearable. At last, your father exhaled through his nose, sharp and heavy. He turned his eyes toward Sukuna, studying the boy’s bruised body as though he were filth caked into the earth.
“Very well, then, daughter.” the magistrate said at last, though his voice was laced with venom. “If you are so foolish, then so be it. But mark my words, you imperious child….when he betrays you, and he will, the blood will not be on my hands.”
The weapons were finally completely lowered. The crowd continued to murmur among themselves as they parted from each other to give room for the household servants starting to pick him up. And just like that, Ryomen Sukuna’s life, once worth nothing, had been thrown into your hands.
Sukuna managed to rasp a sound, a hoarse whisper. “…Why?”
It wasn’t gratitude. It wasn't a relief either. If anything, it was something closer to genuine raw bewilderment. Why would anyone do anything? Why would they risk their lives for someone like him? Why did you do such a thing?
You leaned down, your bright colors brushing against the dirt as you met his broken gaze. You smiled. “Because you’re human too.”
Your lord father, the magistrate, let his decree fall heavy over the crowd, silencing them like a blade pressed to their throats. Guards hesitated, then dragged Sukuna upright, shoving him forward until he collapsed at your feet.
“Take him then, foolish girl.” your father spat. “But remember this….you asked for it. Do not come running to me when the dog bites.”
Laughter rippled uneasily among the onlookers, but it was laced with fear. They had seen the magistrate bend to you and that unsettled them almost as much as seeing the boy spared. Sukuna’s head hung low, hair clinging to the blood at his temple.
Every breath rattled, yet his fists clenched in the dirt. He wanted to snarl, to spit, to claw back the last shred of his pride, but his body betrayed him. All he could do was kneel there, shivering and broken, as the echo of your words seared his mind.
My servant.
You knelt, lowering yourself to meet his ruined face. The crowd gasped, scandalized, but you ignored them. Your hand hovered closer to him. You were a bit hesitant, perhaps because you were unsure if touching him would break him further.
“I won’t let them hurt you again,” you whispered, so softly only he could hear.
Sukuna forced his swollen eye to open, staring at you through the haze of blood and fury. His voice was jagged, shredded by pain, but it cut through the air all the same. “Don’t…pity me.”
Your lips curved, not in mockery, but in something stubborn, almost gentle. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”
For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna did not know whether to hate or cling to the hand offered to him. And so, beaten and bound in chains of survival, he disgruntledly followed with the help of the servants, following your silk skirts in through the falling snow.
IN THE FALLING DRIFT OF SNOW, HE CAUGHT TWO VERSIONS OF YOU. Ryomen Sukuna thought you were unbreakable. When you stood up against your lord father and the crowd, your voice split the world in two. To him, you had looked like something out of reach in your fine silks and your godly glow. You were far too radiant, untouchable. An impossible being in this world, untenable for mortals like him.
But now, weeks later, he knew better.
Half the time, he found that you were not present to maintain your father’s household, as what other ladies in lieu of their mothers would do. The elder servant told him that you were not well enough to live the way you need to.
You were sickly and deathly so.
Your strength came in fleeting bursts,he had been told. It was a rare sight to even find you walking about. He was stunned to hear this about you, let alone that you looked so strong to him. But the day you had saved him had simply been one of your rare, miraculous mornings walking about with your retinue, without your domineering father knowing.
The rest of the time, you wasted away behind heavy doors, hidden from the rest of the estate as though your illness were something shameful. Your chambers were always dim, the curtains drawn tight against drafts and light alike, trapping the scent of medicine, incense, and stale air within the room.
It was a life lived in the dimensions of stillness that not even a doll would enjoy. While others moved freely through the halls, through gardens and courtyards and bustling kitchens, you remained confined to a bed and a chair, your world reduced to the quiet corners of your chamber.
Your body betrayed you often. Fevers came without warning, burning through you until even breathing felt heavy. The coughing fits were worse. They seized your chest suddenly, wringing the air from your lungs until your vision blurred and your hands trembled. Sometimes they lasted only moments. Other times they left you weak and shaking for hours.
Winter was the cruelest season. The cold seeped through the walls and floors no matter how many braziers the servants brought in. Your body, already frail, could not endure the chill. Your skin remained cold even beneath blankets, and every breath of frosty air seemed to cut through your lungs like glass.
The coughing grew harsher then, deeper, and the servants moved about your chamber with worried glances they tried, and failed to hide. Because of this, the doors remained closed most days. Visitors were rare. Conversations were quieter.
Life continued outside your chamber, but within it time seemed to slow, stretched thin between one fever and the next. And that is why the first time Ryomen Sukuna saw you again after several days was when you had finally become well enough to sit upright on your gorgeous futon.
By then, the strange arrangement between the two of you had already begun. As his days serving you passed, he had grown used to lingering near your chambers, even when there was nothing expected of him.
Sometimes he stood along the wall like an unused piece of furniture. Sometimes he waited in the hallway outside, listening to the muffled sounds of coughing and the shuffle of servants inside. He told himself it was an obligation, that he owed you for keeping him alive. Nothing more.
That day, his wounds had finally begun to ease enough that walking no longer pulled sharply at his ribs. He had just stepped into the servants’ hall when the elder servant stopped him, pressing a tray into his hands.
A bowl of fine fish broth steamed gently, its scent light and warm. Beside it sat a small cup of rice, carefully prepared. Sukuna looked down at it, then back up, confusion creasing his brow as looked at the elder.
“Bring it to my lady.” the elder servant instructed calmly. “Make sure she eats everything.”
For a moment Sukuna didn’t move. The words my lady hung awkwardly in his mind. He had been ordered to serve before. He was forced to carry water, sweep floors, fetch things for men who treated him like dirt, but this was different. The food was delicate, carefully prepared. The instruction carried weight.
Still, he turned and walked toward your chamber. He barely had time to cross the threshold before everything unraveled. You had been sitting upright in your chair near the futon, the bowl lifted carefully to your lips. For a brief moment it looked almost normal, just someone trying to eat in peace.
Then the coughing seized you.
It came violently, tearing through your chest with such force that the bowl slipped from your trembling hands. It struck the floor with a sharp crack, broth splashing across the polished wood. You doubled forward, clutching at your chest as the coughing grew harsher, deeper, each breath dragged painfully from your lungs.
Servants rushed in at once. Yet strangely, none of them touched you. Sukuna’s eyes widened, watching it all unfold before him. There was that frustration in their eyes, as even in this sorry state, you refused to be touched.
They hovered nearby you, gathering fine woolen cloth, speaking anxiously to one another, shifting nervously around the room, but not one dared step close enough to steady you. Even as he watched, Ryomen Sukuna remained in the doorway.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. Something in his stomach twisted sharply, a tight unfamiliar knot that made his chest feel strange. He had seen pain before. Worse than this. Yet this felt…different.
He didn’t know whether to step forward or leave. Your coughing only worsened by the minute. Your shoulders shook with the effort of breathing, and your fingers clutched weakly at the arm of the chair as though trying to anchor yourself to something.
Then your nursemaid appeared. The old woman moved through the room with none of the hesitation the others showed. Her eyes were sharp, her expression stern as she pushed past the servants.
She stopped in front of Sukuna and thrust a damp cloth into his hands. “Don’t just stand there, boy.” she snapped impatiently. “She has no one. Sit by her.”
Sukuna frowned immediately, his pride bristling at the command. The cloth hung uselessly in his grip. “I’m not—”
“You are.” The older woman cut him off sharply. Her voice sliced through the room’s panic like a blade. “She claimed you, didn’t she? Then act like it. Comfort her.”
The words struck him harder than he expected. Before he could respond back as he sat by your side, your coughing finally weakened enough for you to speak. You heaved and heaved till you found control of your body. You let out a tender sounding laugh.
“Let him be, nurse…” you murmured hoarsely, your voice barely more than breath. “He doesn’t know…”
Your words were gentle, far too eager to be apologetic, even when they didn’t have to be. But beneath them something else for him to take note of. It was something that could only seem to be resignation in the thought that you were going to be this way for the rest of your life. Just as much as he could feel that texture of lonesomeness.
It was the kind of loneliness Ryomen Sukuna knew well. That sort of loneliness that presents itself to be the quiet kind. The sort that settled in a person when they realized no one would come close enough to stay. The feeling twisted in his chest again.
Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward. The room seemed to pause slightly as he crossed it. Sukuna lowered himself stiffly to the floor beside your chair, his posture rigid, as if daring anyone to comment on the action.
Without looking directly at your face, he shoved the cloth toward you. “Here, my lady.” he muttered roughly. “Wipe your mouth.”
You slowly blinked at him in surprise. For a moment there was only silence, broken by the uneven rhythm of your breathing as the coughing slowly faded. Then a faint smile appeared on your lips. Weak, but genuine.
“Thank you.”
Sukuna immediately shifted, uncomfortable under the softness of your gratitude. His pride prickled, defensive. “Don’t…..thank me, my lady.” he grumbled. “I didn’t do anything.”
Your voice was barely a whisper when you answered. “You sat there, didn’t you?” Your fingers trembled slightly as you took the cloth from him. “No one else does.”
He felt himself stop to stare at you in that moment, not understanding how those words were far too truthful to you than he could ever hope. Sukuna’s eyes flicked briefly toward the nursemaid, as if expecting her to still be watching.
But she had already stepped back. She lingered near the doorway now, half-hidden in the shadows, deliberately giving the two of you space. And for the first time since entering the room, Sukuna realized something strange.
For all the servants that filled this household, you were far too much, truly and certainly, alone in this massive place full of people. You sighed, feeling exhausted. Wordlessly, he helps you back onto the futon, covering you with the thick sheets.
He stays with you when you fall asleep and quickly, he finds himself leaving, staying outside. Even with the cold, he preferred this. It felt more comfortable for him to endure the cold than the things he isn’t used to just yet.
So as he sat outside your door, the fever’s heat leaking through the wood, he heard you call softly, almost as if to yourself from the small slit of the sliding doors. He turns around his head slightly. “My lady?”
“Are you still there?” you asked him weakly, but loud enough to hear.
His first instinct was silence. It was always silence, he couldn’t help it. Silence meant safety. Silence meant no one could twist his words or punish him for speaking out of turn, silence means there would be no one to hurt him.
Ryomen Sukuna had learned that long before he ever stepped into the estate, long before servants called him boy and long before your soft voice began calling him something stranger, he had to be careful with everything if he wanted to live.
But something in your voice that night gnawed at him.
You had spoken into the darkness of the room, unsure if he was even there. Your voice was thin with exhaustion, fragile in a way that made the words sound like they might break apart before reaching him.
“…Are you still there?”
For a moment, Sukuna said nothing. His back pressed against the cold wall beside the door, arms loosely folded as if he had simply settled there by accident. The brazier burned low across the room, its fading warmth barely reaching him. Outside, winter wind scraped faintly along the walls of the estate, making the shutters creak.
You shifted faintly beneath the quilts, the soft rustle of fabric carrying through the quiet room. “…You left my side.” you murmured, almost to yourself.
The words were quiet, but they carried something heavy inside them. It was neither an accusation nor anger. You slept when he was by your side, you would have had the expectation he would have stayed here.
As if it would have made sense if he had.
That was what finally pulled a response from him.
He knelt over the slit and bowed his head as he spoke.
“…Yes, my lady.” Sukuna muttered at last, his voice rough with reluctance. “I am here.”
There was a pause. The room seemed to breathe with it. Then your voice came again, softer this time. “Good. Don’t leave.”
Sukuna frowned immediately, irritation prickling at the edges of his patience. “I’m not leaving—”
“Come here.” Your whisper cut gently through his protest. “It’s…warmer here.”
He didn’t move.
Instead, Sukuna leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the dark ceiling beams, jaw tight as something heavy settled in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with the request. Didn’t know what to do with you.
He was just a boy dragged off the streets, half-starved and bruised by a world that had never once treated him kindly. A boy people spat at, avoided, or beat when he got too close. No one had ever asked him to stay before. And certainly not because they wanted him there.
He didn’t know how to answer loneliness. All he knew how to do was endure it. Still, despite the confusion knotting in his chest, he didn’t leave. He remained where he was, silent and stubborn against the wall while the night stretched slowly onward.
“In a moment, my lady.”
He could hear you hum weakly before you found yourself succumbing to sleep once more. He let out a cold sigh into the air. The nights inside your chambers grew long as winter deepened. Cold crept into every corner of the estate, no matter how many braziers burned or how thick the quilts became.
Sukuna bowed to everyone who came and went, thanking them when they left him a meal and hot drinks. At times relieving him from position so he could relieve himself, which did not happen much. You called for him too much, striking conversations that only he could answer.
The servants came and went with tonics and medicines, that same hot broth, and fresh spring water warm from the fires, but once the doors closed again the room returned to its quiet stillness.
Your illness came and went like the tide. Some days you sat upright, pale but composed, speaking gently with the nursemaid or watching the snowfall through the narrow window. Other days the fever took you. Those were the worst nights.
The heat burned through your skin while chills wracked your body, leaving you restless beneath the embroidered quilts that were meant to keep you warm. Your breaths came shallow and uneven, the coughing returning in harsh waves that left your voice barely above a whisper.
Through all of it, Sukuna remained where he always did. By the door and those rare times, when you would ask him to sit by you until you fell asleep. Half the time, the boy he was could only crouch so lowly against the wall like a restless animal trapped inside unfamiliar walls.
His arms rested on his knees, his posture loose but ready, sharp scarlet eyes half-lidded as if daring anyone who entered to try giving him orders. Servants stopped trying to move him after a while. They simply stepped around him.
You stirred one evening as the fire dimmed low, your gaze drifting lazily toward the shadow he cast across the floor. “You’re still there.”
Sukuna’s head tilted slightly in your direction, but he didn’t answer. He merely nodded back at you from the slit. Your lips curved faintly, tired but warm. “You’re always still there.”
He grunted in response, shifting his shoulders against the wall. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else, my lady.”
The blunt honesty of it caught you off guard. A quiet laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. But the laughter quickly dissolved into coughing. Your shoulders shook with it, the fragile sound echoing painfully through the quiet room.
Sukuna stiffened. His sharp scarlet eyes darted toward the bedside table where the water pitcher sat untouched. He stared at it as if the object itself had personally offended him. For several long seconds he didn’t move.
Then, with visible irritation, he pushed himself to his feet. The chair they had given him had all but scraped faintly against the floor as he crossed towards the room in quick, impatient strides. He grabbed the cup, poured water without much care for neatness, and shoved it toward you.
“Drink, my lady.”
You accepted it slowly, your fingers careful and weak around the cup. For the briefest moment, your hand brushed against his. The contact was fleeting, barely more than a whisper of warmth, but Ryomen Sukuna reacted as though it had burned him. He immediately stepped back, folding his arms again.
“Thank you.” you murmured softly.
His scowl returned at once. “Stop saying that.”
You looked up at him curiously. “Why?”
Sukuna hesitated, irritation flickering across his expression. “Because I don’t deserve it.”
The answer came out harsher than he intended. You studied him quietly then. Your eyes were tired, rimmed with exhaustion and illness, yet something thoughtful glimmered inside them as candlelight flickered across your face.
“Mayhaps.” you said slowly, smiling softly at him. “But as I said before, I will decide what you deserve….Are you not my charge?”
“My lady—”
“Let me compliment you.” you whispered back to him. “Let some good things be said about you.”
The words settled heavily in the space between you. Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He turned away immediately, retreating back across the room to his usual place by the door as though distance could shake the strange feeling your words left behind.
He sank down against the wall again, arms folded tightly. But the words lingered. Clinging stubbornly to his thoughts like burrs caught in cloth. I will decide what you deserve. Sukuna stared at the dark floorboards, scowling harder.
He didn’t like the way those words stayed with him. He didn’t like the way they made his chest feel heavier than before. And yet, despite himself, he could only feel that discomfort in the warmth that you had forced him into. He could only stay.
JUST AS THE WINTER LEAVES, THE WARMTH COMES. Nature loosened its grip slowly, like reluctant fingers uncurling from the world. The sharp winds softened first, no longer scraping angrily against the estate walls. The frost that once clung stubbornly to the gardens began to melt away, leaving damp earth and the faint scent of growing things in its place.
Spring has come once again. Servants spoke in quieter, lighter voices. Doors were opened more often. The house itself seemed to breathe again after months of cold. And in your glamorous chambers, the change could be felt little by little too.
It was a few days later when the fevers finally receded enough to leave you clear-eyed and awake for longer than a few fragile hours. You sat propped carefully against a mountain of pillows, your body still weak but steadier than it had been in weeks.
The quilts had been folded away from your shoulders to let the warmer air touch your skin. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the latticed window beside your bed, its soft golden light stretching across the room. It touched the edges of the wooden floorboards, the quiet brazier in the corner, and finally settled across your face.
In that light of spring, you looked almost unreal. Your skin was pale and delicate, your figure thin beneath your silk robes, as if the winter had drained too much life from you. The sunlight made you appear less like a living girl and more like something made of glass and quiet breath.
Yet your eyes were awake.
Watching the world outside.
Sukuna took note of it.
“It’s nearly time for the fireflies, I should think.” you murmured softly. “I remember they came through in the spring and summer time.”
Your gaze lingered on the window lattice, as though you could somehow see past it, past the gardens and the courtyard and the quiet paths winding through the estate grounds. He watched as you smiled.
“In the gardens… the flowers, they’ll be blooming soon.” Your voice held something fragile. “I can’t wait to…I can’t wait to see them, when I’m better.”
Sukuna wanted to think you were simply excited. Or sad. That was easier for him to grasp. Those were emotions he understood well enough to think about. It was the sort of emotions that were sharp, loud enough to be something that showed themselves plainly.
But the feeling in your voice wasn’t like that. It was softer, quieter, something fragile that seemed almost shy of its own existence. A yearning. The kind that sounded as though even speaking it aloud might cause it to disappear.
“I wanted to see them this year…” you murmured to yourself.
Your voice faded at the end, as if the wish itself had taken too much strength from you. The disappointment that followed was subtle, but it lingered in the air all the same, settling gently over the room like a thin veil.
Sukuna sat where he always did, his feet resting towards the floor. One knee drawn up loosely, his arm draped across it in a posture that looked almost lazy. But his scarlet eyes were sharp beneath half-lowered lids, always watching the room without seeming to. He glanced toward you. His expression was blank. Almost confused.
“…Fireflies, my lady?” he said after a moment.
You nodded faintly, your eyes still lingering on the latticed window where the light of afternoon filtered through. “They come every year when winter ends.” you explained quietly. “In the gardens. They gather near the pond and the lantern trees. When the sun sets, they begin to glow.”
“My lady mother used to enjoy them with me when she was alive.” Your lips curved faintly, as if remembering something distant. “They were beautiful. It looks like the stars have fallen into the grass.”
Sukuna frowned. “That’s it?”
You blinked, turning your head slightly toward him. “That’s…it?”
“They’re just bugs, my lady.” he said flatly. “Glowing bugs at that.”
Your smile faltered for a moment, though not entirely. “I suppose they are.”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the ceiling beams. The streets had never allowed space for thoughts like that. Growing up there meant learning what mattered quickly. Food. Shelter. Warmth. Those were his top priority.
He needed something sharp enough to defend himself with. A place to sleep where someone wouldn’t kick you awake. Dreaming about glowing insects in a garden felt pointless. If anything, dreams didn’t keep you alive. Dreams didn’t stop hunger or cold. In his mind, dreams made dying easier.
Yet when he glanced back toward you, that look in your eyes made it difficult to dismiss the idea entirely. You looked toward the window like someone watching a world you could barely reach. Some wonder he himself could never find to be able to reach.
“Then go see them, my lady. Surely you can…..” The words came out blunt and simple, as though the answer was obvious.
Your lips parted slightly. Then a soft laugh slipped from you. It wasn’t mocking at all. Perhaps it sounded more weary, but it was still a laugh that came from his blunt reply, a laugh that carried a sadness that lingered even after the sound had faded.
“I can’t.” you said gently. You shifted slightly against the pillows, the small movement making your breath hitch faintly in your chest. “At least not like this.”
“My body is too weak, you see.” Your hand rested weakly over the quilt, fingers barely curling into the fabric. “I can’t even walk across the room without losing my breath.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the window again. “How could I wander into the garden?”
Sukuna clicked his tongue quietly. “…So crawl, my lady.” he muttered.
You blinked. “…Crawl?”
“If walking’s too hard….” he said with a shrug. “Then crawl.”
Your brows lifted slightly in disbelief. “You’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That would take hours.”
“So?”
“I’d collapse halfway there.”
“Then rest.”
You stared at him for a long moment. “You make it sound very simple.”
“It is simple.”
You smiled faintly again, though this one held more warmth. “You really don’t understand, do you?”
Sukuna frowned. “Understand what?”
“That sometimes…” you paused, choosing the words carefully. “…Us wanting something and being able to reach it are two very different things.”
He scoffed quietly. “That’s stupid.”
Your eyes softened. “It may be.” You turned back toward the window. “But it’s still true.”
Sukuna frowned. Weakness had never been something he could afford to acknowledge. The streets never forgave it. If you stumbled, you got up. If you were hurt, you kept moving. There were only two choices. Endure it. Or die from it.
What you lived with was something entirely different. A fragile body that betrayed you day after day, trapping you in a quiet room while the world continued outside. He didn’t understand it. But the sound of longing in your voice unsettled him.
It pressed somewhere inside his chest, stirring a strange restlessness he couldn’t shake. He shifted slightly where he sat, scratching absently at the wooden floor with his thumb. He didn’t know why he was going to say what he said. Yet he still did.
“You’ll see them next year, my lady. Don’t think too much about it.” he muttered after a moment. His voice was gruff, almost dismissive. “Doesn’t matter if you miss it now.” He shrugged faintly. “They’ll come again.”
You turned your head slowly at that. Your eyes met his. For a moment, Ryomen Sukuna almost regretted speaking. There was something fragile in your gaze at that moment, something soft and trembling that clung desperately to the future while fear quietly gnawed beneath it. It made his chest feel too tight.
“…Do you think I’ll still be here next year?” you asked softly.
The question slid into him like a knife. He blinked at your words. He could not believe such words came from your mouth. He had seen you in your strength, it didn’t matter if your body was weak. You had such strength that it almost equaled the strength, even when you were soft hearted and naive.
But he could not believe that you would find yourself doubting the strength you have in yourself. Sukuna stiffened instantly. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He looked away at once, as though the floorboards were suddenly far more interesting than your face.
“Don’t talk like that, my lady.” he snapped.
The words came out sharper than he meant them to, he realized. He pursed his lips shut at that moment. Before long, that shift to silence followed, one that felt uncomfortably heavy. He lets out a soundless breath.
The distant sounds of the vast expanse of the estate continued somewhere beyond the chamber walls. The many bustling servants walking through the halls, the faint clatter of dishes being stacked in the kitchen.
But inside the room, everything felt strangely muted. Your question lingered like smoke, smoke that he was not sure how to feel about, how to respond to. He could only tell you off. Sukuna shifted where he sat, restless as the waves in the sea.
His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, his shoulders tense as if he were waiting for something to attack him. He didn’t like the thought you had planted. He didn’t like imagining a world where the quiet room existed without you in it. Before he could stop himself, the words tore free.
“If you really want to see them—” He hesitated for half a heartbeat. He continued, albeit roughly. “—then I’ll carry you.”
The room fell completely still. Your breath caught audibly. Slowly, your lips parted at his words, your eyes widening with genuine surprise. Ryomen Sukuna had expected laughter. Or mayhaps even disbelief. Maybe even a polite refusal.
But instead, your lashes trembled faintly and your eyes began to glisten. He knows it was not from fever this time. Instead, he saw something else. It came from something warmer, something heavier.
“You’d…do that?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly on the words.
The reaction made Sukuna instantly defensive. Heat crept up the back of his neck, crawling all the way to his ears. He turned his head sharply away from you, scowling hard at the wall, unable to face you all of the sudden.
“Tch.” Sukuna retorted. “Don’t make it a big deal.” His arms folded across his chest. “I just….said I would.”
But your tears slipped down your cheeks anyway. They came over and over, quiet and sudden. And all he could do was watch, frozen. He had faced anger before. He knew how to handle people’s curses and their insults, as well as their fists thrown in hatred.
He understood blood and violence. But tears, especially yours, with such innocence and tenderness, it hit him with a force he had no defense against. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. His skin prickled like he’d stepped somewhere dangerous.
“O-oi—” He shifted awkwardly, looking anywhere except at you. “Don’t cry.” His voice dropped into something close to panic. “I didn’t mean—damn it…”
You quickly pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to wipe the tears away. But a laugh slipped through them anyway. Your voice trembled, soft and sweet despite the tears. “You’re terrible at this, you know that?”
Sukuna clicked his tongue loudly. He glared stubbornly at the floorboards, refusing to look in your direction. “Good.” His reply came out sharp. “Means you’ll stop looking at me like that.”
But he didn’t move from where he stood.
And he didn’t take the offer back.
You smiled even wider at him.
“There will be many more faces of mine to look at you with.”
He didn’t want to admit it. But his heart did skip a beat as much. But the flush burning at the tips of his ears betrayed him. And though he turned his face away, pretending indifference, his body betrayed him too. He didn’t return to his usual spot by the door.
“Stop that, will you?”
You laughed. “I don’t want to.”
He stayed close to your bedside that night, closer than he had ever dared before, as if some invisible thread bound him there. And in the heavy quiet between coughs and sighs, Ryomen Sukuna realized for the first time that your loneliness had begun to press into his own.
The night deepened, shadows stretching long across your chamber. Sukuna lingered closer than usual, leaning back against the carved post of your bed, arms crossed, gaze fixed stubbornly at the wall. You watched him in the dim lamplight, your fevered restlessness leaving you unwilling to close your eyes just yet.
The room had long since fallen quiet. The night pressed softly against the walls, and the small oil lamp beside the bed burned with a faint, steady hiss. Its light trembled across the wooden floor and climbed the curve of the wall, painting everything in warm gold and shadow.
You had been silent for so long that Sukuna thought the conversation had ended. Thought perhaps the fragile calm between you would simply dissolve back into the usual quiet that surrounded your sickbed. Then your voice broke through it.
“My mother drowned herself.”
The words came softly, almost as though you were afraid of them. As though speaking them aloud might shatter something delicate in the air. Sukuna stilled into surprise, in the dimly lit silence of your warm chambers.
He didn’t know what to do with that sentence. He had heard many things in his life. He had heard threats spat through broken teeth, the desperate pleas of starving men, curses thrown by those who thought they could frighten him. But this…this was different. Your voice held no accusation, no anger. Only something thin and fragile.
Loss.
Grief.
Sorrow.
He didn’t understand that. He didn’t know his parents. Never had. Whoever had brought him into the world had left him behind without a name, without food, without even the decency of regret. His childhood had been gutters and scraps and the constant fight to keep breathing.
There had never been anyone to lose. Still, the words felt heavy between you. So he did the only thing that seemed remotely right. Sukuna lowered his head slightly, his voice rough and unpolished.
“I’m sorry for your loss, my lady.”
The title still sounded strange on his tongue. Respectful words had never belonged to him before he came here. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers curled tighter in the blanket resting over your lap, knuckles pale beneath the lamplight.
“Do you know why my mother drowned herself?”
Sukuna shifted where he sat beside the bed. The wooden chair creaked faintly beneath his weight. He glanced at you for only a moment before his gaze drifted away toward the far wall. “I heard…” he said slowly. “They said madness took her.”
That was the story the servants whispered when they thought no one was listening. That grief had twisted your mother’s mind until she had wandered into the river like someone lost in a dream. But the moment the words left his mouth, he sensed something change.
You inhaled sharply. “No.” Your voice trembled. “It was me.”
Sukuna’s head snapped back toward you. His crimson eyes sharpened instantly, the quiet calm in them replaced by something fierce and disbelieving. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Your shoulders flinched slightly at the edge in his tone, but you didn’t take the words back. Instead you swallowed hard, your fingers twisting deeper into the fabric gathered in your lap as though you needed something to hold you together. The words came slowly. Like pulling shards of glass from your throat.
“She thought I was going to die.” The lamp flickered faintly as you drew in a shaky breath. “The doctors told her I wouldn’t last the year. I had always been sickly, you see. Weak lungs…fevers that came and went…days where I couldn’t even stand without fainting.”
Your eyes drifted somewhere distant, somewhere Sukuna couldn’t see. “But she…” Your voice faltered. “The thought of me dying…she couldn’t…handle it.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t interrupt.
He simply watched you.
“A month later, she threw herself into the river before she had to watch me waste away.”
The room felt colder after that. Sukuna stared at you, jaw tightening slightly. The muscles along his neck shifted beneath his skin, but he remained silent. Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears, tears you had kept to yourself all these years.
“Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it…” Your voice cracked on the last word. “…If it was worth having me alive like this knowing it cost my mother’s life…..”
You pressed a hand lightly to your chest, as though trying to steady the uneven rhythm of your breath. “Because all I’ve been since then is sick. Weak. A burden that others have to carry.” Your gaze drifted toward the window where darkness pressed against the glass.
“And the world…” Your lips trembled. “The world has always been a box I can’t open.” Your shoulders sagged slightly. “Everyone else walks free under the sky while I just…sit here. Waiting to see if I’ll still breathe tomorrow.”
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush the air from the room. You almost wished you hadn’t said anything. Almost wished you had swallowed the confession and buried it somewhere deep where no one could see how ugly it was.
But Sukuna moved. Just slightly. And when you looked up, he wasn’t looking away anymore. His crimson eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. There was no pity there. No discomfort. Just a strange, grounded weight.
“I get it.”
The words were low.
Almost reluctant.
You blinked at him, startled.
“…You do?”
Sukuna’s gaze slid away then, but it wasn’t the same dismissive look he usually wore. Something raw flickered beneath his expression. “The world was a box for me too.” He leaned back slightly in the chair, arms resting loosely over his knees.
“A prison.” He gave a quiet, humorless scoff. His eyes darkened. “Not because I was sick……Because I was nothing.”
Your breath caught softly as you listened to him. “No name. No coin. No one cared if I lived or rotted in a ditch.”
The words weren’t bitter. They were simply facts, spoken with the dull weight of someone who had long since accepted them. “You think I saw the world?” he continued. “Mountains? Rivers? Festivals?”
His mouth twisted slightly. “All I saw were alleys. Gutters. Scraps.” His gaze flicked back to you. “That was my box. And no matter how much I fought, I couldn’t open it.”
A pause lingered between you. Your chest ached listening to him. Because the quiet honesty in his voice felt painfully familiar. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. Sukuna frowned faintly, as if bracing himself for ridicule.
“So yeah.” he muttered. “I think…I think I understand now.” His fingers tapped once against his knee. “It doesn’t matter if the box is sickness or hunger. It traps you just the same.”
“Isn’t that what it is?” His eyes met yours again. “Makes you think you’re nothing but what it gave you.”
The lamp hissed softly. You blinked through the tears that had finally begun to fall, your voice fragile when you spoke. “Then…what do you do with it?”
Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “The box?”
You nodded. For a long moment he didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the floor, toward the shadows gathering beneath the chair legs. The silence stretched until you wondered if he would ignore the question altogether.
Then he leaned forward. His voice was rough, but steady. “You break it, my lady. You either do it successfully or you die trying. That’s all there is.”
Your breath caught. “But how—”
“Piece by piece, you do it as much as you can take.” he continued. “Even if your hands bleed. Even if it takes years.” His crimson eyes lifted again, sharp with quiet determination. “You tear it apart until the damn thing can’t hold you anymore.”
Your throat tightened. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now, but something inside your chest shifted with his words, something small and fragile. It was the feeling you hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope.
Your lips curved into the faintest smile. “You make it sound so easy.”
Sukuna grunted softly and looked away again, though this time he didn’t lean back. “It isn’t.” Another pause came from him before he spoke again, gruffly. “But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
You blinked at his words. “I….I am.”
His gaze flicked back to you one last time. “Then that’s already one broken wall, my lady. Have pride in that.”
The room fell silent again after that. But the silence didn’t feel as heavy as before. And though Ryomen Sukuna said nothing more, he remained where he was. He was there, close-by. Unmoving, the steady force you had needed all this time.
It was like someone who had decided, without saying it aloud, that he would sit beside your box…Until the day it finally splintered open. The two of you ended up looking at each other, your eyes reflecting onto his.
“Thank you.”
He shook his head. “You’re still going with this?”
“....Yes.” you whispered back to him. “And one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“Call me by my name.”
His eyes widened. “....What?”
“[name].” you told him, a soft smile on his lips. “What shall I call you?”
He looks away. “....My name is Sukuna.”
You smiled at him. "Nice to meet you. Truly."
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE, IT WAS SUMMER AGAIN. As these years came and crept forward towards the great unknown, slow but steady, and with them came changes neither of you could have predicted, now more than ever, facing them together.
The fevers did not vanish, but they no longer swallowed you whole as they once did and so, allowed you some reprieve you hadn’t experienced in a long time. Their grip loosened enough that you could reclaim pieces of living slowly but surely with time.
Your mornings were spent sitting beneath the veranda, afternoons spent walking carefully through the gardens, your nursemaid trailing behind like a worried shadow and always, without fail, Ryomen Sukuna, a step or two away, watchful in a way he never admitted aloud.
He grew into himself with frightening speed, like something raw and untamed finally given the space to stretch. Among the retainers, he quickly became one of the finest in martial arts and the way of the swordsman.
Over these many years, he had proven himself strong enough that even your father, stern and sparing with his praise, acknowledged him, if only with a grunt and the faintest flicker of approval.
The boy you had once seen thin and sharp-edged became a man whose shadow stretched far taller than yours. His shoulders broadened with muscle, his hands roughened with labor, and the restless hunger that had once burned in his eyes dulled into something steadier, heavier.
And yet, when he lingered near you. Still slouching against a post with his arms crossed, or sitting on the low steps with his chin propped on one hand, yawning and talking about things he had found out about.
In short, he was still the Ryomen Sukuna you knew. Still the boy who had guarded your door through long nights. Still the boy who had threatened to carry you into the garden when you had been too weak to walk.
That strange comfort of being together, even in this way, had never left you, and the older you grew, the deeper it burrowed into your heart. The need to always find him close by had never been more entrenched into your existence than now.
And to you, he had only grown more handsome. The sharpness of his jawline cut deeper with each passing year that saw both off. His gaze, once fiery, became the kind of quiet intensity that made it impossible to look away.
His voice had deepened into a low rumble, so deep it carried through your chest whenever he spoke near you. And yet, for all the ways he drew your eyes, he never seemed to notice. Whenever your gaze lingered too long, when you allowed your admiration to soften into words, when you dared to say aloud that he looked strong, or tall, or simply…good….he faltered. Always.
His shoulders tensed, his eyes darted away, his sleeve tugged low as though fabric could shield him. Sometimes he scoffed. Other times, he muttered something rough and evasive. And when you smiled at him, patient and unbothered, his scowl only deepened, as though your ease unsettled him more than scorn ever could.
It wasn’t long before you noticed the truth, though. The markings on his skin. These dark, curling tattoos inked that were his identity were impossible to miss once you began to look closely.
He had hidden them from you over the years. You had seen one or two as children, for they were more visible. But to see so many, it made you feel things you hadn’t expected to feel. They traced like shadows along the hard line of his arms, slipping up past his elbows.
Sometimes vanishing beneath the collar of his acolyte robes only to reappear in the hollow of his throat. They were rough, inelegant things, the kind of markings born not of artistry but of defiance, etched into his youth when the streets were all he had.
And Ryomen Sukuna, for all his strength, for all his sharp-edged pride, despised them. You could see it in the way he tugged at his sleeves whenever they slipped too low. In the way his posture shifted, subtly but deliberately, as though he were always calculating how best to keep them from your view.
What he never told you what he guarded in silence, was that others had seen. The other guards, the older men who had served your household for years, had words sharper than blades. Criminal. Street rat. Thief in a dog’s skin.
They threw the names like stones when they thought you could not hear. And though Sukuna’s temper was a thing most feared, though his fists could have broken jaws with ease, he did not strike them. He bit down the retorts that burned his tongue, unclenched his fists until blood pricked at his palms, and walked away.
Not because their words did not wound him, they did, more than he would ever admit. But he put them all aside, because of you. He didn’t think he could bear it if you found out how much he had suffered in this place for you.
He imagined your face if you ever heard of him brawling with the estate guards over insults. He imagined your disappointment, your worry. And so he endured. Every mocking glance, every half-whispered slur, every cruel laugh swallowed down into the pit of his chest until it sat there, heavy and bitter, festering in silence.
Around you, he carried himself as though none of it mattered. He stood tall, his voice clipped and gruff, his gaze unyielding. He kept his sleeves tugged tight, his collar closed, and when you caught the faintest glimpse of ink, he shifted quickly, muttering something harsh to cut off your questions.
But you noticed anyway. You always did. It was a fine summer afternoon, as you two sat together in comfortable silence beneath the shade of the old cherry tree in the garden. You watched as he watched the lotus flowers move about in the pond. You purse your lips.
You finally spoke. “Why do you hide yourself from me?”
Sukuna stiffened where he crouched beside you. “What are you talking about?”
“The marks….there’s more of them.” You tilted your head, your voice gentle but firm. “I see the way you pull your sleeves down. The way you avoid meeting my eyes when the light catches them.”
His jaw tightened. “They’re nothing.”
“They’re not nothing, and you know that.” you said softly.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His hands curled into fists in the grass. Finally, he muttered, “They were given to me when I was a kid. Meant to brand me for the kind of life I was supposed to live. I wasn’t punished by your father for no reason.”
You frowned deeply. “A child shouldn’t have had to endure such things. Those markings would have been so painful.”
He shook his head. “I deserved it. I was filth. The kind of filth that doesn’t deserve a second glance.”
“Sukuna, you are not—”
He finally looked at you then, and though his face was hard, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Bare and honest, full of raw, unguarded honesty. One that you knew he would show to you. You were the only one he would ever trust like this.
“When people see them, that’s all they see. Trash. A boy who was meant to die in a gutter.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his wrist, lightly tugging his sleeve back. The ink curled against his skin like dark vines, striking but not ugly. You traced the edge with your fingertip, your heart tight.
“They don’t make you a bad person, Sukuna.”
He scoffed, but it lacked any real venom. “Easy for you to say.”
“I mean it. I would not risk my honor lightly to say so.” you said, firmer this time. You shake your head at him. “You didn’t choose them. You were a boy who had nothing, who had no one. You survived in the only way you knew how. That doesn’t make you wicked. It makes you strong.”
His throat worked, but no words came. You leaned closer, your gaze unwavering. “I’ve known you since you were that boy. I’ve seen you sit outside my doors when you could have run. I’ve seen you carry me when I couldn’t walk. You have never been a bad person, Sukuna. Not to me. Never.”
The silence stretched, but it was not heavy. It was thick with something unspoken, something fragile and vast. His hand twitched where yours touched his wrist, and though he did not take it, neither did he pull away.
Finally, in a voice low and hoarse, he muttered, “You’ll regret saying that someday.”
You smiled faintly, your chest aching with something both tender and fierce. “No. I won’t.”
You sighed contently as you found yourself taking in the fresh air that surrounded you. Though his eyes slid away, his ears burned scarlet, and he stayed, longer than he ever had before. You leaned closer, your gaze unwavering.
“I’ve known you since you were that boy. I’ve seen you sit outside my doors when you could have run. I’ve seen you carry me when I couldn’t walk. You have never been a bad person, Sukuna. Not to me. Never.”
“You don’t understand.” he said at last, his voice rougher now, like stone against stone. “I’ve done things. Things that don’t wash off just because you say they don’t matter.”
You shook your head, steady. “I’m not blind. I know you’ve fought, that you’ve bled, that people see you and only see those marks. But that’s not the whole of you. It never has been.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re too soft.”
“Or maybe….you aren’t being kind to yourself.” you countered gently. “Follow my example. Think better of yourself, as I do.”
Something flickered in his eyes then. You were not looking enough to see it. The pain, perhaps, or the faintest spark of something close to longing. He turned away sharply, shoulders rising as though to shield himself. But he didn’t move from your side. He never did.
“I shouldn’t stay here with you too long.” he muttered, though his feet made no effort to shift.
“Don’t leave.” you whispered, softer than a breath. “I want you here.”
“You’re so needy.”
You laughed at his words, but you did not deny them. “When it’s you? Always.”
And in that quiet, stretched taut between you, Sukuna let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. His hand flexed once more beneath yours, and this time, though he still didn’t hold on, he allowed the warmth of your touch to remain.
For him, that was more than enough.
WINTER HAD NEVER LOOKED MORE BEAUTIFUL. You could not help it. The first snow fell that winter, blanketing the gardens in white. From your window, you watched it gather over the branches, soft and heavy, muting the world to stillness.
The nursemaid warned you not to step outside, muttering of fevers that might return if you caught the chill. But the longing was too great, the untouched snow called to you like a secret wanting to be revealed. It was far too enticing to ignore.
So, wrapped in layers of shawls and furs, you stole into the courtyard in those bundles, trying your best to walk properly, your slippers crunching against the frost. You were giggling to yourself, thinking you have outwitted everyone.
But you were wrong. Ryomen Sukuna was already there. Of course he was. He was always there, as if some invisible tether bound him to you. His tall frame loomed at the garden’s edge, his arms crossed against the cold, watching for something. Or perhaps, watching you.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered immediately, his frown sharp against the drifting flakes. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
You laughed, breath misting in the air. “It’s only snow, Sukuna.”
“Only snow, huh?” he repeated darkly, stepping closer. “Your hands are already red. Do you even feel the cold?”
You held them out toward him in answer, wiggling your fingers playfully. “Of course I do. Isn’t that the point?”
Then, without warning, you scooped up a clumsy handful of snow and tossed it at his chest. It broke apart against his robes, scattering crystals down the black fabric. For a moment, his eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. Then his scowl returned twice as fierce.
“Are you insane?”
You only giggled, spinning slowly in the courtyard, watching the flakes fall around you. The snow clung to your hair, dusted your lashes, and for a brief instant Sukuna forgot how to breathe. You looked like you belonged to the winter.
So pure and uncorrupted, yet so fragile and luminous, but alive in a way that twisted something deep in his chest. There had never been a more beautiful drift of winter in all of his life, not when he looked at you.
“Hey, Sukuna?”
“What is it?”
“What do you think the snow’s color was?” you asked suddenly, tilting your head back toward the sky. “Why do you think that snow has forgotten the color it was?”
Sukuna blinked. “.......What the hell are you talking about?”
You laughed again, softer this time, almost secretive. “It’s because it’s longing to know how to be loved back into its colorful vibrant life.”
The words were strange, whimsical, utterly beyond him. Yet they clung to the air between you, weighty and shimmering, like the snow itself. Sukuna shifted uncomfortably, as though the ground beneath him had tilted. He didn’t understand. But he understood enough to feel the ache in your voice, the yearning threaded through your laughter.
You turned, smiling at him, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m only playing.”
But he couldn’t help it. His gaze lingered, heavy and unsettled, as though staring at you too long would reveal something he wasn’t ready to face. And when you stumbled slightly in the snow, unsteady on your feet, he was there in an instant, one hand gripping your elbow, the other steadying your back.
“Careful now, [name].” he muttered, his voice lower than he meant it to be. “You’ll fall.”
You smiled up at him, close enough that your breath warmed the air between you. “I know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re always going to make sure I’m alright.”
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly, as though you might dissolve from his hold like melting frost. He didn’t answer, but his silence was louder than words. And in that quiet, while the snow kept falling, Sukuna realized he feared the winter far less than he feared the thought of you slipping away from him.
That night, long after the fires had been stoked and the estate hushed into silence, The fuschia haired young man sat by the window of his small quarters. The snow had not stopped. It fell in a steady curtain, covering every path, every roof tile, swallowing the world in its silence.
He should have been sleeping, but the words you’d spoken looped endlessly in his mind. “It’s because it’s longing to know how to be loved back into life.”
He scowled, dragging a hand down his face as though he could claw the memory out of his skull. What kind of nonsense was that? Snow was snow. White because it was frozen. Cold because it was dead. Nothing more.
And yet….he saw your smile as you spun in the courtyard, snowflakes in your hair. He heard the laugh that had cracked open the frozen quiet of the garden, light and ringing, alive. He felt the heat of your body when you stumbled into his arms, fragile and certain all at once.
The snow wasn’t longing.
You were longing itself.
He knew it and yet….
He could not admit it.
Sukuna cursed under his breath, slamming a fist lightly against the wooden sill. It was ridiculous, how easily you lived in his head. You, the sickly little lady who was supposed to be delicate and untouchable, had somehow become the one person who could make him falter.
He thought of your hands, red and trembling from the cold, and anger prickled hot in his chest. You laughed, but he’d seen the way your breath had caught, the faint shake in your steps. He hated it. He hated how fragile you seemed, how he never stopped worrying about you. He hated most of all that he cared so much it ached.
The next morning, when you appeared in the corridor bundled in another shawl, Sukuna was already waiting. His arms were crossed, his mouth set in a scowl, but his eyes betrayed the unrest he hadn’t shaken.
“You’re not going out there again, [name].” he said flatly.
You tilted your head, surprised. “It’s only snow—”
“No.” His voice was sharper than intended, but he didn’t back down. “You’ll make yourself sick again. You were already shivering yesterday, weren’t you?”
You blinked at him, then smiled faintly, soft and amused. “You worry too much.”
Sukuna looked away, jaw tight. “Someone has to.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung between you, startling in their honesty. You stepped closer, peering up at him, your smile growing warmer. “Then I suppose I’ll let you do it for the both of us.”
His heart lurched at the simplicity of it, the ease with which you accepted what he could not even name. He tried to answer with a scoff, some rough deflection, but the sound stuck in his throat. Instead, he shifted closer, just enough to shield you from the draft that seeped through the corridor.
And when you looked away to hide the faint flush on your cheeks, Ryomen Sukuna thought again of your words, of snow longing to be loved back into life. For the first time in a long time, he wondered if he understood after all.
THE ESTATE HAD NEVER SOUNDED LIKE THIS BEFORE. The echoes of voices being barked almost at the same like, like fierce hunters would towards their hunting dogs against a prey. It was far too much for anyone, but more than too much for you.
The orders shouted across courtyards. Servants rushing down hallways with lowered heads. The sharp clatter of armor and weapons carried in through the open gates. Horses stamped restlessly in the outer yard, their hooves striking stone like distant thunder.
War had arrived at your family’s doorstep for the first time in many years. But to you, none of that mattered. The world had narrowed, having shrunk into the small bubble you had made for yourself. Yet that too had been pierced, when it contained only one unbearable truth.
They were taking him from you, they were taking Ryomen Sukuna from your side. And it was not something you were willing to make reality. Not when you needed him more than your father or the soldiers did.
Your father’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade striking stone. “The clan demands it.”
“I do not care what the clan demands.” you tell your father as your fine silk skirts tossed about as sharp as the blade. “He is mine and not anyone else. So why—”
Your father looked at you for a moment, his eyes darting sharper than before. Your father’s words echoed through the hall, heavy with authority that no one in the room dared question, as much as yours did. Yet you were not the lord of this house. He was. He always has been.
“A man with his strength cannot rot at your side when swords are drawn.”
His tone was final. Decided. The kind of decree that had already been written in stone long before anyone bothered to speak it aloud. But you couldn’t hear him. Not really. All you could hear was the violent pounding of your own heart.
Your breath rattled in your chest as you stared at Ryomen Sukuna who was finally standing before you. Armor covered him now. You had seen armor before. Many of your father’s men wore it often enough.
Yet to find yourself seeing it on Sukuna felt wrong in a way that made your stomach twist. Everything about it felt foreign. The metal plates wrapped across the body you had known since boyhood, the body whose warmth was worth more than the cold of this armor.
The shoulders that had carried you when your legs were too weak to walk. The chest you had leaned against countless nights when sickness kept you awake. The dull steel gleamed in the firelight, cold and merciless.
It was like a wall being built between you and you hated it. You hated anything that took him away from you, everything that took his warmth away. It made all senses drift away into desperation, into grief.
Your feet moved before your mind could stop them. You stumbled forward, nearly tripping over the hem of your robe as you reached him. Your fingers caught his arm, gripping the plated steel as if you could anchor him in place. The armor was cold. Unyielding beneath your shaking hands.
“No….” you choked. Your voice barely sounded like your own. “No…you can’t—he can’t take you from me.”
Ryomen Sukuna’s jaw flexed beneath the shadow of his helmet. For a moment his eyes flickered, those sharp crimson eyes that usually held nothing but stubborn defiance. But now something else flashed there.
Something about the way his eyes looked at you was painful. Everything in him felt like it was grievances to his very existence. What he was feeling was more something painful than anything that this armor could do to him. What any enemy could do to him.
He didn’t pull away, he didn’t push your hands aside either. Instead, he lets himself break from his sense of control and wraps his arms around you, giving his warmth to you all you would want, as if it was the last thing he could ever give you.
“It’s alright.” he whispers against your ear as he hears you mewling in tears. “I will return.”
You did not part from him, nor did you speak any words. Instead, you held him firm and took in the warmth that only could be his. The warmth that you had enjoyed so deeply. You familiarize yourself with what remains of his skin, of his smell, of everything you had come to hold dear about him.
“Girl.” Your father’s voice cracked through the moment like a whip. “Enough. Do not shame yourself.”
But shame had long since lost its meaning, not when you could lose the person you held dearest to your heart. You shook your head at your father, as your grip on Sukuna only tightened with those words.
“If you take him….” you cried, turning toward your father, your voice trembling but loud enough to echo through the hall. “Then you take me too.”
Your chest heaved as the words rushed out of you, raw and desperate. “Because I—I can’t—” Your voice shattered under the weight of it. “How am I supposed to live without him?”
Silence fell, all too complete and suffocating. The servants, the man at arms, the vassals, they all froze where they stood, their heads bowed low, pretending not to hear the words that should never have been spoken aloud.
Even the guards near the door shifted uneasily. Sukuna’s breath caught, even for just for a moment. He reached for you then. His rough hand, all too scarred and calloused from years of work and fights, had come up to cup your cheek.
His thumb brushed gently over the wet trail of tears running down your skin. The gesture was almost painfully tender. His hand trembled faintly. Though his voice tried to remain steady. “You’ll live.” he murmured. “You’ve survived worse.”
You shook your head immediately, clutching his wrist as though the world might rip him away if you loosened your grip. “Not this.” you whispered hoarsely. “Not without you.”
He shook his head. “You’re strong. You can do it.”
Your fingers tightened desperately. “You promised.” Your eyes searched his face like someone searching for air. “Don’t you remember? You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone.”
His chest rose sharply beneath the armor. For a single heartbeat, the war outside ceased to exist. There were no soldiers, there was no clan. There was no duty to be fulfilled. Only you, trembling in his arms, to behold.
Slowly, he pulled you closer. Then suddenly, fiercely. He crushed you against his chest, the cold metal of his armor pressing against your cheek. The plates were hard, unyielding, but beneath them you could feel the violent rhythm of his heart.
His breath fell hot against your temple as he spoke. “I’ll come back.”
“Sukuna….”
“Do you hear me?”
His arms tightened around you as though he could carve the promise into your bones. “I’ll come back. Even if I have to crawl through blood and ash.” His grip tightened. “You won’t lose me.”
Your sobs broke against him then, muffled against steel and cloth and the sound of his pounding heart. You clung to him harder, your fingers digging into the edges of his armor until your knuckles turned white with strain.
“I don’t care if you’re my servant.” you gasped between broken breaths. “Or if my father calls you a soldier.” Your voice shook, but the words came with fierce certainty.
“[name]....” your eyes met his, both pairs bursting with emotion.
“You’re mine, Ryomen Sukuna.” The room seemed to hold its breath as much as he did. “Mine. Do you hear me? Do not let them take that away.”
His composure cracked even more, definitely so human, for you, only for you. Sukuna lowered his head until his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of the moment had finally found its way past the walls he kept around himself.
“…Then wait for me.” His voice came softer now. “That’s all I ask.”
You swallowed the bile forming on your throat. “I….I will wait.”
“Then I will go and do right by my duty, by you.” His thumb brushed once more against your cheek. “Wait a little longer. And I’ll come back to you.”
A sound caught in your throat. Half sob. Half vow. You nodded. Even though your hands trembled where they clung to him. He held you as long as he dared. Longer than a servant should have, longer than what your father’s dignity, your dignity should have allowed.
But it was all he could do, to keep you sane, to keep himself from losing himself in the grief of this parting. He had to have a tether onto his earth and he knew it would be you. It has always been you. And you knew that. Now the world does too.
Finally, Sukuna stepped back. His hand slid down from your cheek to your wrist. For a moment his fingers lingered there. It was like letting go meant severing something sacred. Then he released you.
He turned without another word. The heavy doors of the hall groaned as they opened, doing the same as they closed behind him with a dull, final thud. The sound echoed through the room like a verdict.
Your knees gave out. You sank to the floor where he had been standing only moments before. Your hands pressed helplessly against the cold stone as your cries filled the silence he left behind.
And somewhere down the corridor, Ryomen Sukuna walked with rigid steps, soldiers falling into formation around him. But his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His jaw locked against the storm building in his chest. The weight pressing on his heart felt heavier than any sword they could ever place in his hands.
He has to come back.
He will die trying.
As long as he comes home.
Come home to you.
YOUR BODY WAS AS RESTLESS AS YOUR HEART AND SOUL. The sickness returned the very night he left, swift and merciless, as though your body itself revolted against his absence. It was not simply fever, you knew it wasn’t.
It was grief taking root in your veins, turning warmth into fire, breath into knives. You shivered even as sweat clung to your skin, your throat raw from every breath that rasped free. Each distant echo of steel clashing against steel, each faint trumpet and drum that carried across the night, lodged inside your chest until it felt as though the war was being fought within you too.
The bedclothes tangled around your limbs like chains, holding you down. The walls of your chamber, once your shelter, seemed to close in tighter, suffocating. You thought of the snow, of the gardens, of the boy who had walked beside you when you could barely stand and how now, he walked into storms you could not follow.
Yet even in the haze of fever, even as the whispers of your servants trembled from the other side of the door, over and over again. They did not care for you the way he did. All of them have all but made you feel lonelier than ever before.
She’s weaker, she may not last the winter.
Even when ill, you are stubborn. You gritted your teeth as you clutched at the only thing left to you. His words. “I’ll come back. Do you hear me? I’ll come back, even if I have to crawl through blood and ash. You won’t lose me.”
You mouthed them against the pillow, breathless, the syllables catching on your cracked lips. Like prayer to the heavens, like a talisman to keep you safe. The fever painted everything in strange colors, but when you smiled faintly, it wasn’t delirium.
It was him. It was the echo of his voice in your chest, steady and low, stronger than the war outside your windows. Louder than the sound of death circling near. And in that fragile quiet, you understood it. As long as those words lived inside you, you were not alone.
Miles away, Ryomen Sukuna thought of you with every step he took, every blade he swung. The battlefield was a roaring inferno of men and steel all around him. Brutish arrows blotting out the pale winter sky, mud thick with blood.
Many bodies collapsed into the dirt with screams that clawed at the air. His body moved like a storm, each strike swift and merciless, honed by years of survival. But his mind, it never left the thought of you. Not for a heartbeat.
He carried the memory of your trembling fingers curled around his wrist, the way your voice had cracked when you’d begged, how am I supposed to live without you? The memory burrowed beneath his skin, sharper than any blade, and it drove him harder than the shouts of commanders ever could.
And then it happened.
Your father stood ahead of him, sword raised, unaware of the archer hidden in the chaos. Sukuna caught the gleam of the arrowhead a fraction of a second before it loosed. He didn’t think at that moment. Instead, he moved. His body hurled forward, faster than thought, faster than fear.
The arrow struck him deep in the side, steel burning through flesh and muscle, a white-hot shock that buckled his knees. But he didn’t fall. He would not fall. With a guttural snarl tearing from his throat, Sukuna swung his blade in a vicious arc, cleaving down the bowman before another shaft could fly.
Your father turned, eyes widening. It was not with gratitude. Sukuna knew that much. His breath came ragged, his voice low and jagged as he barked for the men to drag Sukuna back. But Sukuna straightened instead, teeth bared, crimson eyes alight with fury. Blood seeped beneath his armor, soaking his robes, but his grip on his weapon only tightened.
“Don’t…..” he spat, taking a heavy breath. “Don’t think I did this for you.”
The old man’s gaze sharpened, his voice cutting through the chaos like steel. “Then why, boy?”
Sukuna’s chest heaved, pain threatening to double him over. His jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked bone. But the answer surged from him before doubt could touch it. It felt too raw, never unshakable, carved into him deeper than the tattoos that marred his skin.
His crimson eyes locked onto your father’s, steady, unyielding. “Because if you fall, she’ll grieve. She’ll break. And I…I can’t let that happen.”
The words tore from him, not soft, not pleading. But as fierce and immovable as a vow forged in fire. A silence stretched, even amidst the loud horrors of this senseless war. Men shouted, steel rang, horses screamed. But between them, time held still.
Your father’s lips pressed thin. His shoulders lifted with a long, steady breath, his eyes narrowing as if weighing something unspoken. Finally, his voice dropped, rough and deliberate. “You love her, then.”
Sukuna did not flinch. His face did not soften. If anything, it hardened, as if to shield the fragile truth he had spoken. He stood straighter, ignoring the blood running hot down his ribs, and his voice rumbled like a storm held in restraint.
“With everything in me.”
And for the first time, your father did not argue. His expression remained stern, but there was something there. There was a flicker, faint as smoke, almost imperceptible. Almost like he was remembering his long departed wife. And most of all, understanding.
And so, while war raged across the fields, while fever burned you in your quiet chamber, the invisible thread between you and Sukuna pulled taut. It bound you tighter than distance, tighter than silence, tighter than the grave itself.
The admission left his mouth like a blade leaving its sheath. It was sharp and real. Too honest, already impossible to call back. With everything in me. He meant those words. He always has. Even when he never spoke about it.
The words lingered in the cold battlefield air long after the clash of steel swallowed them. Sukuna’s jaw tightened, his breath ragged, but his body did not waver. He had fought countless men, stood blood-soaked through carnage, faced down death more times than he could count.
But this, speaking of it, rattled him more than any arrow could. Love. It was a dangerous thing. A fragile thing. He had spent years hiding behind fury and brutality, carving out a place in the world where no one could touch him, where nothing could be taken from him.
Your face haunted him. Your beautiful smile in the snow, your laughter ringing like chimes, even the way your small hand pressed against his arm as though you could anchor him to gentleness.
He could feel the ghost of your voice against his ear, that trembling cry of how am I supposed to live without you? over and over again in his mind, It had burrowed into his marrow, to his very soul.
For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna feared death. Perhaps not his own, but the idea of you left behind, broken, alone and he would not be there to comfort you, to hold you, to love you the way you deserve to be.
He shifted his blade, setting his stance again though the wound in his side burned hot and wet. He would fight. He would carve through every enemy that stood between him and the promise he made to you. Crawl through blood and ash, just as he said.
Your father’s gaze stayed on him, heavy and measuring. There was no softness, but there was no condemnation either. Only silence, a silence that seemed to acknowledge the weight of what had just been said.
“Then fight to live.” your father said at last, low and grim. “Not just for her…but for yourself.”
Sukuna gave a short, humorless laugh, the sound rough in his throat. “Living’s only worth it if it’s with her in it.”
And though he said nothing more, he felt the words root deep, like iron chains and wings all at once. They bound him, yes, but they also carried him. Every step, every swing, every drop of blood spilled after was for you, and only you.
That night, as the fires of war painted the sky red, Ryomen Sukuna sat alone, hand pressed hard against the wound in his side. The pain was sharp, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he was alive. It reminded him he had to stay alive.
Because somewhere beyond the smoke, beyond the screaming, you were waiting. Fevered, fragile, clutching his words like prayer. And he would not break that prayer. He could not. The thought of losing wasn’t an option.
He had to come home to you.
THE WORLD HAD TILTED WHEN HE HAD COME HOME. For days, you had lain in restless fever, your mind clouded with images of blood and death, of your dearest Ryomen Sukuna vanishing into smoke and silence.
But now the impossible was real. His well built silhouette cut through the dust of the returning men, broad-shouldered and unmistakable, his crimson eyes glowing even beneath the fading light. Your eyes could only widen.
You forgot the weakness that had plagued you, forgot the trembling of your limbs. Fever or no fever, you shoved aside the servant who tried to steady you, clutching at the edges of your robes as though you might fly if it meant reaching him faster.
The courtyard stones burned your bare feet, but you didn’t feel them. All you saw was him. And there he was. His armor bore the dull sheen of battle, dented and scarred. A fresh line carved across the strong cut of his jaw, still raw with blood.
None of the blood, none of the darkness ever mattered. All that mattered to you now was that his eyes found you the moment you stumbled into the open and had softened with love. Crimson eyes, sharp as blades, softened instantly, melting in a way you’d thought war had stolen from him forever.
You ran. You didn’t care that your legs wobbled, that your lungs screamed for air. You tripped on your hem, stumbling forward, and before you could fall, his arms were already around you. The strength of his grip swallowed you whole.
Every bit of his existence was steadying you. His strong arms were holding you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. The world itself seemed to stop breathing. The clang of armor, the shouts of men, the grinding of horses’ hooves.
Everything, all of it dissolved. All that was left was the thunder of your heart pressed against his chest. His familiar scent, blending with the new echoes of war and blood, had flooded your senses, grounding you even as your tears spilled hot and uncontrollable.
Your voice cracked against him, muffled by the metal and cloth between you. “Never again.” you whispered, desperate, broken. “Don’t ever leave me again.”
His arms locked tighter around you, as if he could fuse your body to his by sheer force of will. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, his calloused palm trembling just enough that you felt it through your hair.
“I won’t.” he murmured, low and raw, yet so tender. He bent his head, his lips brushing the crown of yours in something almost reverent. “Not ever. You hear me? Not ever.”
And you believed him.
The fever still lingered in your veins, but in your beloved’s arms, you felt stronger than you ever had. You clung to him, and he clung back with the force of a vow. The drift of winter storms disappeared with the warmth of the love you had welcomed home.
“I love you.” you whispered to him. “More than life itself.”
He embraced you closer. “I love you too. To the heavens and hells, I’ll love you.”
ROUTINE HAD SLOWLY RETURNED INTO HIS LIFE. When he was not by your side, it had been a habit for Ryomen Sukuna to release tensions with taxing training as much as possible. As he was recovering still, the healer had told him to not strain himself too much. Perhaps that is why he had only taken to the bow.
He stood in the practice yard, his sharp red eyes glaring towards the target. His bow rested firm in his hands, the wood groaning slightly as he pulled back the string. He exhaled, long and measured, and loosed. The arrow tore through the air and struck the target with a deep, resounding thunk.
Again. Another arrow. Another thrum, another heartbeat in the silence. The repetition calmed him in ways that ground him back into the earth. Each shot was a way to bleed the restless fire from his veins, to carve order into chaos.
Until he sensed the presence at his back.
He did not need to look to know who it was.
Your father.
Ryomen Sukuna lowered the bow, his arm falling to his side. He did not bow his head. It was part of his old habits, old pride. But it seems your father did not mind it now. He was used to his rebellious spirit.
But he was not a terrible mannered young man. He stood still, a warrior acknowledging another man’s presence. For a long while, the older man said nothing. His gaze lingered on Sukuna with the silence of someone weighing not just the flesh before him, but the spirit within it.
Finally, his voice came, reflective. “You saved my life.”
Ryomen Sukuna did not answer. He had no need. They both remembered the arrow, the way Sukuna had turned into its path, the blood he had spilled in your father’s place. Your father’s eyes drifted past him, to the horizon as though memory pulled him there.
“Years ago, I had a son. Strong. Stubborn. Too much like me for his own good.” His jaw tightened, the lines of grief carved deep into his weathered face. “He’s gone now. The gods saw fit to take him before his time.”
The words lodged in the dark eyed man’s chest. He understood loss. He understood what it meant to bury a piece of yourself in the ground. His voice came low. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
The older man’s gaze flicked to him, sharp, almost testing. “You don’t strike me as one to give empty condolences.”
“I don’t, my lord.” Sukuna replied simply. He reached for another arrow, pulled the string taut, and released. The shaft flew straight, dead center, as if to punctuate his truth. “I mean it.”
Silence fell again, filled only by the echo of the bowstring and the sound of Sukuna’s steady breathing. It was your father who broke it. “My daughter, it is obvious that she is interested in you in such a way that only comes intimately.”
The words struck like an unexpected blow. Sukuna froze mid-motion, his body coiled, the arrow still caught between his fingers. Slowly, his head turned, crimson eyes narrowing. He was in disbelief that your lord father would be saying this out loud. Let alone such a man of his standing.
“…What?”
“Marriag.,” your father said plainly. His gaze did not waver. “My daughter wishes for you.”
For a heartbeat, the man with fuschia hair forgot how to breathe. The words sank into him, sharp and staggering. Marriage? You….would you even want him that way? Him, who had been carved by blood and shadow, who had no softness left to give?
You would not be asking him indirectly, through your father if you weren’t interested. If anything, a woman like you with the wealth and status behind her would have to ask him. What worth would he bring to you in marriage? A criminal who had been a servant, what would he bring to your marriage?
His lips parted, rough and uncertain, a sound catching in his throat. “I—”
But your father raised a hand, silencing him. “I misjudged you.” His voice bore the weight of confession, each word deliberate. “I thought you were reckless. Dangerous. Unworthy of her.”
He stepped closer, authority pressing down like a mountain. “But I saw you on the field. I saw you bleed. Not for yourself, not even for me, but for her. And I have watched the way she looks at you. The way she lives when you are near, and withers when you are gone.”
Sukuna’s grip tightened around the bow. His knuckles whitened, his throat constricted. He could stare down an enemy with ease, but this, this unraveling of his heart…it left him defenseless. As if he was that boy who had his life exposed to vulnerability of the elements all over again.
Yet this time, in a way that had made him feel some way he had never thought he would ever feel. This sensation was new, it always will be. Your father’s face softened only by the smallest fraction, the grief-lined edges giving way to sincerity.
“It would make her happiest, I think, to have you. And if she is happy, then so am I.” A breath. One that was resolute, tender for the first time in a long time. “If you will have her, I would be glad to call you not only my daughter’s protector, but my son. Her husband.”
The arrow slipped from Sukuna’s fingers, falling soundless into the dirt. His chest rose and fell as though he had just left the battlefield, his heart pounding harder than it ever had in combat. He had fought men to the death and given his everything in war. He had stared into the void and dared it to consume him.
But this was different. This stripped him bare. He said nothing. Could say nothing. But in the silence, his mind filled with you. You who was the most important person in his life, the person who he loved more than anything in this world.
You who were running barefoot across the courtyard despite your fever, robes clutched in trembling hands. You who are pressing your face against his chest, whispering, Never again. You who was always smiling through your tears, giving him a reason beyond war and survival to stay.
“Well?” your father asked.
Sukuna faced him. “If she would have me….then I would like to be, with your blessing, her devoted husband.”
Your father had smiled, smiled like he had never done his life. “You had the blessing the moment you sat there, accompanying her during the worst of times. I just did not see it then, but…I see it now.”
He put his palm on Sukuna’s shoulder and nodded at him. “You have all of my blessings, thousand fold.”
There was no happier moment for him.
He bowed to him for the first time in his life.
“My lord….father, thank you.”
Your father shook his head and smiled. "No....thank you. For loving my daugther better than anyone else."
IT WAS ONCE AGAIN BEAUTIFUL SPRING. Yet this would be the first time the two of you would ever travel together. You had been frail for way too long to do such a thing, yet with the spring weather and your body being well enough, you had found yourself pushing to go on a trip to the temple, to give thanks to the gods for their goodness.
The road to the temple had been long and uneven, winding through forests and narrow mountain paths where the air smelled of damp earth and pine. Most travelers who made the pilgrimage arrived with aching legs and heavy shoulders, their voices dull with exhaustion by the time the temple gates finally came into view.
But you hadn’t truly felt the weariness.
Not with him beside you.
He will always give you strength.
Sukuna walked the road like a silent shadow that refused to leave your side. Sometimes he strode half a step ahead, scanning the path as though every turn might hide danger. Other times he lingered slightly behind you, his presence steady and watchful, making sure you never slipped too far out of reach.
He never said it aloud, but you could feel the way his attention clung to you. Every loose stone.
Every uneven step. He would always make sure nothing was out of its place. His crimson gaze flicked constantly toward your feet.
He checked on your posture, the way your breath rose and fell after long stretches of walking. As though the earth itself might betray you. And if it did, he would be there to catch you as much as he would be there to go ahead and avenge you.
More than once his hand hovered just inches from your arm when the trail narrowed or sloped too sharply. When you noticed and insisted you were perfectly capable of walking on your own, he only grumbled under his breath.
“You say that every time.” he muttered once, folding his arms as you stepped carefully over a cluster of rocks.
“I am fine, truly.” you protested, lifting your chin stubbornly.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Until you faint.”
You huffed softly at that, but the corner of your mouth betrayed a faint smile. Even when he complained, even when he acted like the journey itself was an inconvenience, you could see the truth in the small thing.
It was the way he slowed his pace when you were tired, it was the way he watched the sky as though calculating how long you could safely travel before the night air grew too cold for your lungs. His thoughtfulness makes your heart soar.
By the time the temple finally appeared through the trees, its lanterns glowing warmly against the twilight, you felt something softer than exhaustion settle in your chest. There was a peace that the gods could give.
For the first few days the pilgrimage followed the quiet rhythm expected of such sacred places. The quiet, genuine prayers whispered beneath incense smoke. The generous offerings were placed carefully before the shrine.
As you passed them by, many travelers were lowering their heads and bowing in reverence before returning to their simple rooms and reflecting on their day of devotion. You followed suit, praying for your mother, for your father, for Sukuna, for good health, for a long and happy life.
Ryomen Sukuna never prayed. You noticed that, even when you were kids. But more than ever these days now that you are both older. He stood beside you while you did, arms folded loosely across his chest, crimson eyes wandering across the temple courtyard with the restlessness of someone who trusted gods less than he trusted his own strength.
But he stayed.
He never once stepped away.
He even smiled once.
On the third night, after the final prayers were done and the temple halls had gone quiet, sleep refused to come. Your room felt too small. Too still for your liking, for your comfort. Your thoughts wandered restlessly through memories and questions you couldn’t quite quiet.
Eventually you slipped from your futon and padded softly toward the door. Outside, the temple grounds glowed with scattered lanterns. Their golden light trembled gently against the dark silhouettes of trees and stone pathways.
The air was cool and fragrant with night-blooming flowers. You had only walked a few steps into the garden when you heard it. There were footsteps behind you. They were heavy to you, but they were also far too familiar to consider different. You didn’t even need to turn around.
“You shouldn’t wander off.” Sukuna’s voice drifted through the darkness, low and rough as always.
But there was no real reprimand in it. It was just a statement, a fact. Yet you were certain that he was pouting from behind you, sulking with the departure of your person from his watchful sight. You smiled faintly.
“I’m still on temple grounds, you know.” you said, glancing back at him. “It isn’t exactly dangerous.”
He approached anyway, his shadow stretching long across the lantern-lit stones. “That’s not the point.”
Of course it wasn’t. His presence settled beside you like something solid and grounding. Together you began to wander slowly through the garden paths, the quiet hum of cicadas threading softly through the night.
The air smelled faintly of reeds and water. In a few moments, light appeared. One small flicker. Then another. Tiny golden sparks rose from the grasses near the pond, drifting lazily into the air like wandering stars.
Fireflies.
They multiplied slowly, blinking in and out of existence among the reeds until the garden seemed dusted with living starlight. You stopped walking without realizing it. Your breath caught in your throat.
Sukuna noticed immediately. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward you rather than the glowing insects dancing through the dark. “What is it?”
You shook your head quickly. “N-Nothing. I just—”
Your eyes darted back toward the fireflies, your words stumbling out in nervous bursts. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I mean, not that it’s unusual….they always appear in summer, sometimes in spring! But tonight it just feels different. Maybe because we’re here, and because—well, because you’re here, and I don’t usually get to see them with anyone, not like this, not with—”
Your voice kept running ahead of your thoughts. You knew you were rambling. You could feel it. But stopping suddenly felt even more terrifying. Sukuna’s brows drew together slightly. Not in annoyance. Concern.
“Are you alright?” he asked again, stepping closer.
His hand brushed lightly against yours. It was not quite a grasp, but more like a question. The touch sent a small, nervous tremor through your chest. Your heart was beating too fast out of your chest, over and over.
The fireflies swirled gently around you both, tiny lights rising and falling in the warm night air as though the garden itself had begun breathing. Your courage was slipping away. If you didn’t say it now, you never would. So before your fear could swallow the moment, the words burst free.
“Will you have me as your wife?”
Silence fell instantly. The silence was not the ordinary quiet of nighttime. With your words, you knew they had turned night into something deeper. The words hung between you like a fragile flame. Sukuna stopped breathing.
His scarlet eyes widened just slightly. But it was just enough to reveal the shock rippling beneath his usually unshakable composure. He had faced being beaten and belittled, being in battlefields without flinching. Still this, this was not something he had ever faced before.
This single question struck him harder than any blade. The fireflies drifted slowly around him, their light catching the sharp edges of his features in brief flashes of gold. For a moment he simply stared at you.
It was as though you had become something impossible. It was a miracle as much as it was a storm. Your father has long promised him his blessing. But it was something different coming from you.
It was something he had never dared to hope for. But they were words he suddenly could not imagine living without. Then his hand closed around yours, so firm and so grounding, something that tethered you back into earth with his warmth, with his love.
“You’re asking me that…..” he said slowly, his voice low and rough with disbelief. “Like I could ever say no.”
The world seemed to pause around you as you lifted your head in surprise. The cicadas softened their song. The lantern flames barely flickered. His fingers tightened around yours. You stared up at him, your own hand trembling in his grasp.
“So…then…” you whispered, the wind nearly stealing the words from your lips. “You’ll have me?”
For a moment his lips twitched. Not the usual smirk he wore when teasing you. “Little fool, my precious dearest fool.” he murmured, his thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. “You think I fight wars…bleed…take arrows through my flesh just to keep breathing?”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Everything I’ve done…” he whispered. “I’ve done it for you. No one else. Just you.”
The truth in those words struck you like a wave. Something cracked inside your chest. Your eyes blurred as tears slipped free before you could stop them. Sukuna’s expression softened immediately.
He lifted both hands, his calloused thumbs brushing carefully beneath your eyes, wiping away the tears as though they were something precious. “Don’t cry, alright?” he said quietly. “This is such a happy thing.”
“No, I can’t—I can’t help it! It’s just….”
Though his own voice trembled slightly. “If you cry, I’ll think you regret asking.”
“I don’t, I never….” you said quickly, shaking as you squealed. “Not for a moment. I’m…I’m so happy!”
Your fingers tightened in his, seeing him as clearly as you want even among the falling tears. “I meant it. I only want you. I want you as my husband, no one else.”
For a long heartbeat he simply looked at you. As though committing every detail of your face to memory. The shine of tears in your eyes, those pouring happy tears the way the lantern light caught in your hair, the fragile courage still trembling in your voice.
Then he leaned forward. His forehead rested gently against yours. And he breathed out your name like it was the only prayer he had ever learned. “I’ll take you, as my wife.” he whispered. “No matter what.”
The fireflies rose higher into the night, their soft lights swirling around the two of you like a silent blessing. Your knees weakened suddenly under the rush of emotion. But Sukuna’s arm wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer before you could stumble.
He pulled back just enough to see your face. When you smiled wider through your tears, something rare and unguarded softened his expression.And slowly, almost shyly, Ryomen Sukuna had allowed himself to be infected by the same bug of joy.
“So it’s settled.” he said gruffly, though the hand holding you trembled slightly. “You’ll be mine.”
“Yes.” you whispered to him. “A thousand times over.”
His thumb brushed your hand again. “And I’ll be yours.”
His crimson eyes held yours steadily as you laughed happily. “Always and forever.”
EVEN WHEN YOU HAD EACH OTHER, IT WAS NOT ENOUGH. You could not find yourself letting him out of your side every hour of every day. But he would not have it either way. He was happier when he was by your side, his dearly beloved wife.
You and Sukuna had been married only a short while, but already the world had begun to feel different. The house no longer echoed in the way it used to. If anything, it had become something more than that. The feeling was intense, you could not find the words for it.
Your days were no longer measured by waiting for him to return from distant duties or training grounds. Wherever Sukuna was, you were there too. Sometimes beside him, sometimes simply within sight, but always close enough that the space between you felt warm and alive.
He trained in the courtyard, blades flashing beneath the sun, and you sat nearby with your embroidery or small repairs, pretending to focus on your stitching while secretly watching the way his muscular body, his tattoos like flowing ink against the stretch of his fine robes. He always noticed, of course. You were his ravenous wife, as he was your most attentive husband.
“You’re staring again,” he would mutter without looking at you.
“I am not.”
“You missed the same stitch three times.”
You would huff in protest, red warmth appearing on your cheeks. But the faint curl at the corner of his mouth always betrayed him, feeling good about the fact that his wife consistently found herself distracted with attraction towards him.
Even your silences have become comfortable now. There was no longer a need to fill them with nervous words. Just sitting near him every day, hearing his steady breathing, feeling the weight of his presence….it was then enough to you.
But marriage did not change everything.
Your body still betrayed you.
The illness that had lingered since childhood had not vanished simply because you had found happiness. Some mornings you woke with enough strength to walk the gardens. Other days the fever returned, creeping through your bones until even standing felt like climbing a mountain.
It was on one of those days that Ryomen Sukuna told you what he planned to do.
“I’ll go to the ancestral shrine tomorrow.”
You looked up from the blankets wrapped around your shoulders. “To the shrine?”
His eyes flicked toward you briefly as he fastened the clasp of his outer robe. “I haven’t gone since before the war, anyway.” he said. “It’s time.”
Your heart stirred immediately. “You mean…to tell them?”
He nodded once. “That we have both married and are truly a family.”
Warmth rushed through your chest. You pushed yourself upright despite the dizziness tugging at the edges of your vision. “Then I’ll come with you. I am sure that both of them would be pleased to see both of us.”
Sukuna turned fully then and the moment his gaze landed on you, his expression hardened. “You will not, wife. Not in this condition.”
Your excitement faltered. “But—”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand perfectly well, and you know that!” you insisted, attempting to rise to prove it.
The room tilted immediately. Sukuna crossed the space between you in two strides and caught your arm before you could stumble. “Perfectly well, huh?” he repeated flatly.
You frowned at him, cheeks flushed from fever and embarrassment alike. “I want to be there too.” you insisted quietly. “It’s our ancestors now. I should bow to them too, like you plan to. I’m your wife now.”
Something softened briefly in his crimson gaze but then it disappeared behind stubborn resolve. “You’ll greet them another time.”
“That isn’t the same.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You think the ancestors care if you stand in front of a stone marker?”
“They might, though.” you muttered sulkily.
Sukuna stared at you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, his voice dropped slightly. “I’ll do it.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“The rites.” He folded his arms across his chest. “For both of us.”
Your confusion deepened. “You mean…you’ll tell them about our marriage?”
“I’ll tell them everything about our life together.” he said simply, smiling. “And how you’ve been doing well and that we’re doing all we can to make the clan a better place.”
“So don’t worry about not being able to do your part.” He reached down and tugged the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “And I’ll honor them properly. The offerings. The prayers. All of it.”
You stared at him. “But that’s something we’re supposed to do together.”
He shrugged faintly. “Then I’ll bow twice.”
“That isn’t the point!” Your protest came out far more petulant than you intended.
Sukuna’s brow lifted slightly. “You’d rather collapse halfway up the shrine steps?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Your arms folded instinctively. “You’re just…doing it without me….And you won’t be here, we…we won’t be together.”
There it was. The childish sulk you hadn’t quite managed to hide. Sukuna stared at you for several long seconds. Then he did something unusual. He sighed, almost too happily. You pouted even more.
“Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous of the ancestral grave.”
“I am not!”
“You are.”
“I am not jealous of the ancestors!”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re sick. Stay here. Rest.”
“But—”
“I’ll handle the rites, don’t worry.” he said firmly. “I’ll be home soon too.” Then his voice lowered just slightly. “And when I bow, it’ll be for both of us.”
Your lips pressed together stubbornly. He studied you again, clearly recognizing the battle still happening behind your eyes. Then he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss against your temple.
“Stop sulking already, will you, wife?” he muttered.
You absolutely did not stop sulking. The next morning he left before dawn. You stayed in bed like he ordered. And sulked the entire time. He smiled to himself as he whispered promises to return soon.
The trip had been quicker done like this, with just his supplies and his mighty horse conquering miles of terrain after another. The ancestral shrine sat deep in the forest hills, where the wind carried the scent of cedar and old stone.
Sukuna dismounted his horse and approached the weathered shrine slowly. It was quiet there. There were servants and guards, but they were off to the distance so as to not disturb the ancient spirits. They all but bowed to him as he went ahead towards the main house of the family he had now been married into.
He carried the offerings himself. Fine incense. Potent rice. A few porcelain flasks of sake. For a long time he simply stood there. Looking at the names carved into the stone. Then he knelt. Lighting the incense with steady hands, he placed it carefully before the shrine. Before long, the smoke curled slowly into the air.
“I’ve come to report something, oh old, wise and ancient ancestors. This lowly descendant, the new son of our family, is here to give my praises and thanks for your guidance.” he said at last, his head low. “My dearest wife, your most devoted descendant, had wanted to come. But she’s sick again.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the ground. “With your understanding, I’m doing the rites myself to honor all of you, who have accepted me as your son and descendant.” He poured the sake slowly over the offering stone.
“She would’ve bowed properly,” he added after a moment. “Probably longer than necessary.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “She’s stubborn like that, my dearest wife.”
Silence settled again. Then his voice softened slightly. “You should know something else.” His hands rested loosely against his knees. “For a long time I didn’t think I’d care about anything like this.”
His gaze lifted toward the old shrine roof. “But somehow…she found her way to me anyway, as you yourselves have, dearest ancestors.”
The incense smoke drifted upward between the stones. “I’m grateful for that.” His next words came quieter. More sincere than anything he had spoken so far. “…So if any of you had a hand in it—” His jaw shifted slightly. “Then thank you.”
“Thank you, dearest ancestors.” He whispered into the air. “I will come again and worship you. This time with my dearest wife, when she is well. And perhaps….” He couldn’t help but smile. “With another descendant to present.”
The forest remained still. Ryomen Sukuna bowed his head once. Then again. And finally a third time. One bow for himself. One for you. And one more he couldn’t quite explain. He stood up and lowered his head, exiting backwards, still facing the ancestors.
When he rose, the wind had begun to move through the trees. Branches creaked softly overhead. He extinguished the incense and turned back toward his horse. For the first time in years, something about the forest felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Like the world itself had taken a breath, right before something terrible was about to happen.
He shrugged, keeping the feeling to himself. “I should come home.”
THE ANNUAL CLAN GATHERING WAS ALWAYS SO LIVELY. Even as winter ruled the land, its frost clinging stubbornly to the barren trees, inside the great hall was warmth. Fine braziers burning bright, laughter rolling loud, and cups of sake passed freely from hand to hand.
It was New Year, a time to honor both past and future, and tonight the air seemed thick with merriment. Your husband Sukuna sat before you, closer than anyone could have wanted, his crimson eyes catching the firelight like garnets.
His presence filled the space as it always did, commanding without effort, the weight of his authority undeniable. He leaned back slightly, one hand curled loosely around his cup, listening with faint amusement to the younger cousins boasting of their year’s hunts and victories.
Every so often, his gaze flicked toward you. It was just a glance, but enough to make your heart stir, enough to remind you that you were his. But not everyone shared in that warmth. And you would not expect them to. Not when your choice of husband was not to their liking.
Your elder cousin sat apart, a shadow in the corner of the room. His cup remained untouched, his posture stiff as though the laughter around him were an insult. His eyes, sharp and cold, found you often, as often as such unexplainable malice echoed towards your own husband.
You had known this bitterness would not fade easily. Long before you, your cousin had been groomed for the seat Sukuna now occupied as your husband. Being the only child of your lord father left, you were expected to marry one of your other male relatives, among the likeliest was your elder cousin.
For so long, even as young children, he had believed it by right. And then Ryomen Sukuna had come, with his unshakable strength and his care for you, and all of that had changed. Especially so with your father taking your husband to be his own son.
By your marriage, the seat was your husband’s place without question. And you were all but sharing in the power and the reverence that had once been your cousin’s dream, the dream he likely felt you had taken from him.
The envy hung in the air like smoke, acrid and heavy. You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the joy of the night. The songs rising from the hearth, the clattering of dice and cheers of those gambling away small fortunes. Yet you felt his stare like a blade at your back.
Sukuna noticed, of course. He always noticed. His hand shifted, resting lightly over yours, his thumb pressing against your skin in a subtle, grounding touch. He didn’t look toward your cousin. He didn’t need to. His silence was enough, his certainty stronger than any spoken warning.
Still, as the night carried on, you could not shake the unease that threaded through your chest. The merriment of the hall rang hollow against the knowledge that envy was seated among you, silent but simmering.
The morning sky was pale and colorless. Winter still ruled the mountains, its breath sharp and biting. Your horse’s hooves crunched through thin layers of snow as you followed your cousin up the winding mountain path.
He had invited you to go and hunt for some snow time prey, as he had done with your brother when they were children. You wanted to build rapport with him, if you wanted him to accept your husband in the clan, to make the disagreeable, disgruntled relatives seek peace.
Frost clung to the pines, weighing their branches down so heavily they creaked softly whenever the wind stirred. With every step upward, the sounds of the estate faded behind you. The laughter. The warmth. The living pulse of the clan. All of it disappeared into the distance.
The higher you climbed, the quieter the world became. At first, your cousin spoke easily enough. He asked about your health. “How have you been feeling?” he asked lightly. “I heard your illness has been kinder to you lately.”
You offered a small nod. “I’ve been well enough. As of late, my health has all but improved!”
“And married life?” he continued. “That Sukuna doesn’t frighten you too badly?”
A faint joke lingered in his voice. You managed a small smile, shaking your head. “He’s kinder than most believe.”
Your cousin chuckled. “I can imagine.”
But beneath his pleasant tone, something sharp lurked just beneath the surface. Every word seemed to carry a faint edge. Almost like a blade hidden inside velvet and that had made you uncomfortable. As the path grew steeper, the conversation began to fade.
Silence stretched between you. It was heavy, compromising. Eventually the trail narrowed too much for the horses to continue. Your cousin dismounted first, setting aside his horse and tying its reins towards the strong tree trunk.
“We’ll walk the rest of the way.” he said. “Too dangerous to go up the way we were.”
You followed reluctantly. The cold air burned in your lungs as you climbed the rocky slope behind him. Snow crunched beneath your boots, and the wind tugged at your sleeves as though urging you to turn back.
Your unease grew stronger with every step. Until suddenly, the trees opened. And the cliff appeared before you. The mountains fell away in a dizzying drop, the valley far below buried beneath a white blanket of snow.
Your cousin stopped near the edge. Then slowly turned. The polite mask was gone. His smile had vanished completely. In its place was something far uglier. “You should never have been his, dearest cousin.”
His voice was quiet. But the hatred inside it cut through the cold air like a blade. Your stomach dropped. “What…?”
His eyes burned with something long festering. “It should have been me, it has always been me.” he continued, each word tight with restrained fury. “The seat. The authority of the family. Respect.” His gaze shifted over you slowly. “And you.”
Your blood turned to ice. “Cousin, this is not right.” you said carefully, your voice trembling despite your effort to remain calm. “Please… this isn’t—”
“Especially you.” He stepped closer. Years of bitterness twisted his face into something unrecognizable. “You sit beside him like you belong there, that foul, criminal. That lowlife, letting him take everything, like everything he stole was meant for him.”
You instinctively stepped backward. Your heel struck a loose stone near the edge of the cliff. Your breath caught. “Please, this is not you.” you whispered. “Let’s go back.”
But the madness in his eyes had already swallowed reason whole. “If I can’t have it—” His hands suddenly shoved forward, with such force, such violence. “—then neither will he.”
For a moment the world slowed. The ground vanished beneath your feet. Wind roared past your ears as the mountainside opened below you. Your body fell backward into empty air, before you could even scream.
And in that single suspended heartbeat, you thought of the love of your life, your beloved husband. His crimson eyes. The way he held you as if the world itself might try to steal you away. The promise he made to return. The promise that nothing would take you from him.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because you knew what he would find when he came looking. Not you. Only blood in the snow. And then, the cold had all but swallowed everything. At that moment, there was nothing else left.
You fell into silence.
THE SNOW THICKENED AS THE NIGHT FELL. The piling snow had all but blanketing the world in utter, eager silence. At first, Sukuna had told himself you would be back soon. You were polite to a fault, too soft to reject even a bitter cousin’s invitation.
But as the hours bled into more, and the fire in the hall burned low, his unease became a knot of iron in his chest. By the time the clan retainers lit the second round of lamps, his jaw was tight enough to ache. He stood suddenly, the scrape of his chair silencing the room.
“She should have returned by now.” he growled, already striding toward the doors.
“Perhaps she lingers to soothe your cousin’s pride, my lord.” one of the elders offered carefully. “Many of them are too hot tempered, you see.”
Sukuna’s crimson eyes cut toward the man, sharp as blades. “Or perhaps something has gone wrong while you all sit here drinking yourselves sick.”
The storm outside bit at him the moment he stepped into it, but he did not hesitate. He saddled his horse with furious hands, ignoring the sting of ice in his lungs. His men scrambled after him, begging him to wait until the snow relented, but his voice came like a snarl through the wind.
“She’s out there. Alone. I’ll find her if I have to tear the mountain apart stone by stone.”
He rode hard, the world reduced to a blur of white and shadow. Each gust of wind seemed to whisper your name. Each bend in the road made his heart pound with desperate hope, that the next turn would reveal you, bundled in your cloak, cheeks pink from the cold, waving to him with that stubborn smile.
But the mountain gave him no such mercy.
At last, he saw the break in the snow. The a scuffle, a trail leading off the path, then silence. Dread clawed up his throat as he dismounted, stumbling through drifts that swallowed his boots. The wind howled, carrying with it a stillness that felt like a warning.
And then he saw you.
Your body lay half-buried in the frost at the base of a slope, your form so still it might have been a sculpture carved by the storm itself. For one heartbeat, his mind refused to accept it. It could not be you.
It wasn’t you.
But it was.
Gone and cold.
It was you.
Long gone.
And dead.
He dropped to his knees so hard the earth shook beneath him, scooping you into his arms. Your skin was ice. Your lips, once warm and quick to smile, were blue with silence. Your lashes were rimmed with frost, closed as though you had simply fallen asleep.
“No.” His voice broke, guttural, torn from the depths of a man who had never begged for anything in his life. He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking violently. “No, not you. Not you. Don’t you dare do this to me.”
He clutched you tighter, rocking you as though his body alone could shield you from the cold that had already claimed you. His breath came ragged, harsh against the stillness of your face. He whispered to you like a man unhinged, fragments of prayers and curses blurring together.
“Wake up. Do you hear me? You’re mine. You don’t leave me. You don’t—”
His tears fell hot against your frozen skin, streaking down your cheeks as though to mimic life. He kissed your face, your hands, desperate to force warmth back into them. The storm roared, the mountain pressed down with silence, but he only held you closer, refusing the truth.
When his men finally arrived, lanterns glowing faintly in the storm, they stopped dead at the sight of him. The great Ryomen Sukuna, warrior feared across provinces, knelt in the snow like a broken man, cradling his dead wife with a devotion that no one dared disturb.
“My lord…” one whispered, stepping forward carefully.
Sukuna’s head snapped up, crimson eyes blazing with a wildness that froze them where they stood. His voice came low, jagged, torn raw: “She stays with me. Do you hear? She’s mine. She stays.”
The men exchanged stricken glances, none daring to move closer. The snow gathered on his shoulders, in his hair, on your lifeless form, but still he would not let go. He rocked you in his arms, whispering your name again and again like a mantra, as if repetition could undo what fate had wrought.
Hours passed, and still he remained, unyielding. It was as though the mountain itself had become his tomb, the storm his mourning shroud. And in truth, a part of him had already been buried with you.
It was later into the night, getting down the mountain finally. Your husband, now a widower, had carried you home was one that none in the clan would ever forget. The storm had not ceased when he arrived, yet it did not stop him. He had to bring you home. He had to make sure you were warm.
His fine robes soaked through, his arms cradling you as though you were still alive, as though a spark of warmth might return if only he held you tighter. His voice had been raw with rage and desperation when the doors opened, when your family rushed forward to meet him, yet no one dared pry you from his grasp until he allowed it.
Your body was laid out in your father’s house, shrouded in white as tradition demanded, though Sukuna had nearly torn the cloth away when they tried to cover your face. His snarl was animal, his hands trembling as they reached for you.
Don’t you dare hide her from me.
It was only your father’s hands that came forward. His old and shaking, aged, yet firm touch had been the only thing that had convinced him to let go. “Enough, Sukuna….my son. Please.” the older man whispered, though his voice cracked with the weight of grief. “Let her rest.”
The firelight caught the wetness in his crimson eyes, but he obeyed. He stood like a shadow at your side after that, unmoving, unyielding, every muscle trembling with the weight of fury he could barely contain. Not once did he sit. Not once did he look away.
All through the night, the clan whispered among themselves, the sound of hushed weeping and muffled prayers filling the hall. They stole glances at Ryomen Sukuna, who stood guard like a wrathful spirit, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. It was as though he dared anyone, even death itself, to come closer.
When dawn finally broke, painting the world in a pale, cold light, Sukuna stirred. He turned at last to your father. The older man’s eyes were hollow, red-rimmed with grief, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of a loss no father should ever bear.
Two children, his wife.
He had lost everything.
And he had not yet died.
He looked at Sukuna, the son-in-law he had once hesitated to accept, and saw in him now a storm barely leashed. This was a man who had lost the only tether soft enough to hold him back from the abyss.
“Father-in-law.” Sukuna rasped, his voice hoarse from a night of silence and swallowed cries. He bowed his head for the first time in memory, an act that stunned those who bore witness. His voice was low, edged with something feral, something dangerous.
“I come to ask for your blessing. I will not move without it.”
The hall fell into silence. Every breath hung suspended in the cold air, every gaze turned toward the grieving patriarch. They all knew what those words meant. They all knew what storm would be unleashed if Sukuna were unchained.
Your father swallowed hard, his jaw clenching. He had once been a man of restraint, of balance, of wisdom. But when his gaze fell to your still form on the mat. Your hands folded neatly, your face serene in its final rest. There was something inside him cracked.
He thought of the cousin who had led you to the mountains, who had come back unscathed while you never returned. He thought of the bitterness in the boy’s eyes, the envy that had festered for years. And the last of his restraint broke.
“Go, my son.” he whispered, though his voice trembled. His hands, balled into fists, shook at his sides. “Do what I cannot. Do what must be done. My child deserves justice.”
The words rippled through the hall like thunder. Gasps rose, soft cries of fear. But Sukuna’s crimson eyes flared with grim fire. He bowed once more. Far too deep, sharper, his forehead nearly striking the ground.
“Then by your word, father.” he vowed, his tone like steel drawn from its sheath, “I will not rest until their line is blood dried on the pavement, and let the snow take them forever. They shall be forgotten.”
THE WINTER HAD ALL BUT HOWLED HIS GRIEF AS HE RODE OUT. His fine horse was a shadow cutting through the snow one speedy stomp after another. Frost clung to his hair and lashes, but his crimson eyes never dimmed. He rode with a fury that shook the ground beneath his steed’s hooves, his cloak snapping like a banner of war.
By the time he reached the cadet branch’s estate, the lamps inside still burned bright. The windows glowed with warmth, laughter echoing faintly across the frozen air. They drank, they feasted, they lived in ease, far too unaware of the storm approaching their door.
Ryomen Sukuna did not wait for an invitation.
The gates splintered beneath his strike, wood and iron exploding into shards that scattered across the snow. The clang echoed like a death knell. Shouts rang out, guards rushing forward with blades raised, their eyes wide with disbelief.
They never stood a chance.
The first man fell with his head cleaved clean from his shoulders, the second with his chest torn open so wide his ribs jutted through. Sukuna’s blade carved arcs of silver light through the darkness, each stroke precise, final, merciless.
The night erupted with screams as steel clashed, but Sukuna moved like death incarnate, his strikes unerring, his fury inexhaustible. The snow drank greedily, white fading to crimson as it soaked up steaming blood.
The courtyard became chaotic in its blood, its violence, its horrors. Men shouted orders that fell apart in their throats as Sukuna cut them down. Spears splintered, armor dented, bodies fell one after another until the air stank of iron and smoke.
Sukuna’s wrath was not blind. It was a sharpened spear, aimed straight at your cousin. But all who bore his bloodline, all who sheltered him, who had shared in the arrogance that led you to your death….all of them would pay the price in full.
Women shrieked, clutching their children as they fled into the endlessly bitter cold snow. Retainers knelt, begging for mercy, their voices high and panicked. But Ryomen Sukuna’s face was stone, his eyes pits of molten fury.
“Mercy?” His voice thundered, terrible and unyielding. “My wife begged for her life in the snow. Did you show her mercy?”
His sword answered before they could. He cut them down where they knelt, blood spraying against the pristine drifts. He set fire to the outer halls, their timber walls crackling as flames licked upward, black smoke rising into the night sky.
Inside, the slaughter grew worse. The sound of steel on bone, of wet screams and sobbing, echoed through the estate. Blood ran down the stairs, seeped between the floorboards, dripped from the eaves until the house itself seemed to weep red.
By the time Sukuna reached the inner hall, corpses littered the ground like discarded dolls, far too broken to determine what it looked like. Some still twitched in their final spasms, steam rising from their wounds in the cold air.
The once-proud home of the cadet branch had become a charnel house, every shadow heavy with death. And at its heart, trembling, was your cousin. He had tried to hide, cowering behind the screens of the inner chamber. But Sukuna’s presence filled the room like an avalanche, stripping him of all the chances of hope.
The cousin staggered back, his face pale, sweat streaking through the blood that spattered his clothes. Sukuna’s shadow fell over him, terrible and vast. His crimson gaze burned, more beast than man, his body streaked with gore, each step echoing like a drumbeat of doom.
The cousin stammered, voice shrill and cracking. “It—it wasn’t meant—I didn’t—”
Sukuna seized him by the throat, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. The cousin’s feet kicked helplessly above the floor, his fingers clawing at the iron grip that crushed his windpipe, brutalizing him through.
“You took her from me.” Sukuna’s voice was low, quiet now, but deadly in its calm. It was the stillness of a blade poised at a throat of lightning just before it strikes. “And for that, you shall pay the price.”
The cousin wheezed, eyes bulging, legs thrashing in panic. Sukuna’s other hand drove his sword slowly, deliberately, through his chest. Not quick, not merciful. Inch by inch, steel pierced flesh, cracking bone, tearing through the core of him.
The cousin’s strangled cries gurgled with blood, his life dripping down the blade as the snow fell in lazy, delicate flakes outside. Sukuna leaned close, his lips brushing the man’s ear, his voice a final curse.
“Your life is nothing compared to hers.”
He twisted the blade. The cousin’s scream curdled in the frozen air before dying in his throat, his body convulsing, then falling limp. Sukuna held him aloft for a moment longer, crimson eyes locked on the fading light in his victim’s gaze, as if daring him to carry word of this justice into the afterlife.
Then, with a flick of disgust, he let him drop. The body landed in the snow with a sickening thud, joining the countless others scattered across the grounds. He took a long, deep, exhausted breath. The silence that followed was immense.
The estate now lay in ruin. Bodies littered the courtyard, the steps, the chambers, and the garden walls. Endless rivers of blood slicked the stones, freezing in rivulets that gleamed black under the winter moonlight.
The flames he had set caught and spread greedily, devouring wooden beams and paper screens, casting the snow in an orange glow. The air was thick with smoke, the acrid stench of fire mingling with the iron tang of blood.
Sukuna stood amidst it all, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his blade dripping scarlet. Snowflakes drifted down, pure and white, only to vanish against the heat of his skin or melt upon the gore that clung to him.
Every muscle in his body trembled, but not from exhaustion. No, he was far from spent. It was the weight of rage, grief, and the hollowing emptiness of vengeance fulfilled yet unsatisfying. Everything was gone.
The screams had faded. The pleas, the cries for mercy. It was all gone. Nothing stirred but the fire. Nothing lived but him. Nothing had been left but him, in the blood of his revenge. Revenge that did not feel any good. Sukuna staggered forward, his boots crunching through snow half-turned to slush by the blood soaking it.
He came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard, lifting his face to the sky. Snow fell heavily now, thick flakes spiraling down as if the heavens themselves sought to cover the carnage, to bury the evidence of what he had done. They landed softly in his hair, melted against the heat of his skin, dissolved on the blade still clutched in his hand.
“For you, my dearest [name].” he rasped, the words catching, breaking against the storm in his throat. His voice was hoarse, raw, more wounded than victorious. “For you, my love. For you.”
The wind carried his vow into the night, dispersing it across the ruined estate, across the mountains, across the world itself. He had given everything to the fury, to the slaughter, but it could not give you back to him.
Ryomen Sukuna sank to his knees among the corpses, his sword falling from his hand. The blood on his skin cooled, the fire roared, and the snow fell endlessly, as if to mourn with him. And still….Still you were gone.
A bitter sound escaped him then. Something halfway between a laugh and a broken sob. “So this is what victory is, huh?” he murmured. He screamed and screamed, until his throat burned. “This is not worth anything. This is nothing. This is fucking nothing!”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Tears began to melt into the snow, into the blood. He had stayed there too long, far longer than he should have. He wiped his face, the cold not even making him cringe. Yet he stood.
He pushed himself to his feet slowly, every movement heavy. The snow had begun to cover the carnage, inch by inch, the storm determined to erase the evidence of his fury. But Sukuna knew it would never truly disappear. Not from the world. Not from him.
His gaze lifted to the mountains beyond the burning estate, dark shapes looming beneath the storm. Somewhere beyond them lay the cliff where you had fallen. Somewhere beneath the earth rested the grave he had dug for you with his own hands.
He had laid you there wrapped in his cloak. The same cloak you had once teased him for never removing. His throat tightened. For a moment, the great warrior who had reduced an entire clan to corpses looked frighteningly close to shattering again.
Then his expression hardened.
Not into rage, nor anger.
It was only grief, only pain.
A man who had lost everything.
“You asked me to live, [name].” he said quietly to the wind, remembering the last thing he had whispered to you as he buried you beneath the frozen ground.
I’ll come back to you. Somehow. His grip on the sword tightened.
“I don’t know how yet, I don’t know how to live without you.” he continued, voice low and steady despite the grief grinding through him.
“But I will.” The snow fell harder, swirling around him like a veil. “I will tear apart heaven itself if I must.”
The flames behind him devoured the last of the estate with a deafening roar. Sukuna turned away from the ruin at last. He did not look back as he walked into the storm, leaving the burning clan grounds and the bodies buried beneath snow and vengeance.
The world would remember this night as a massacre.
I am making this post because I've seen many of you criticise fanfiction and how writers write a particular content a lot recently. Which is fine, you're allowed to do that because you have a free platform and freedom of speech and I agree, many times I agree because i resonate with it. But it gets to a point.
The point being hypocrisy.
Because you lot come and bitch about how there's a lot of smut fics and not enough fluff or angst.
There's a reason. Smut gains traction. It garners engagement. Yeah, "write for yourself" is a pretty thing you can stamp on a writer but at the end of the day they're all humans. We thrive on feedback and interaction, which works best for smut fics.
Again, I'm not saying that every smut fic writer does it for engagement, many enjoy writing that stuff, but a good portion of people do it because it brings them a crowd that actually talks to them about said smut fic. Hell, I've seen and known my mutual writers change their content type to smut works so that people would actually interact with them. I, myself, i have deleted/privated numerous works of mine because no one wants to fucking read it because it isn't smut or smau.
Lately I've also seen y'all talk about how there's not many longfics, and most of it are drabbles or short pwp. I've been on Tumblr for a while, as I've been on ao3. Tumblr wasn't like this early in 2016-17. It used to have it all, OCs, RP blogs, blogging culture, etc. We had longer fics, chaptered fics with really good plot and proofreading, good grammar and everything. It's been in recent times that a sudden spike in such short form content has started. Even now, you can see a stark difference in how people treat a proper full length fic and a smau. The smau gets way more interaction than the fic. All because your attention span is fucked.
"there's not enough angst!!!!" When was the last time you went in and author's inbox to appreciate their angst fics?
"I wanna read smut!!!!!" Yeah but did you comment on the last fluff fic that you liked?
"there's only smut now!!!!" Yeah because y'all refuse to comment or reblog with your thoughts in the tags about writers' non-smut works. When was the last time you went under anon to tell the writer that you liked their work? What is the author gonna write? The content that flops with barely a few notes? Yeah no. It doesn't work like that.
Fluff and non-smut works are and remain the least focused on work in any particular fandom. The fact that Tumblr is called the "smut app" is wild because ao3 is filthier, and has way more smut fics than Tumblr can ever comprehend. Tumblr is named so not because of the quantity but because of the content that gains engagement. Which is smut. Even on ao3, fluff fics are given equal attention and love as compared to the absolute thrashing fluff fics receive on Tumblr. You lot loooove to consume a certain type of content and beg for more and then complain when the author serves you the very same content in hopes of validation. Are we not human or what?
So the next time you feel like bitching about how there's only smut or not enough fluff or angst. Shut the fuck up. Or change your blogging tactics to actually commenting/sending an ask/telling the author that you liked a certain type of work and you'd appreciate it if they wrote more like that. And I'm not saying authors with a huge following or whatever, start with the beginner authors, those who have requests open, those who talk to you, and are actively telling you to interact with them.
The whole "I'm shyyyyy" bullshit does not work because sending an anon ask is not rocket science. And if you can whine about all this, then you can also very easily comment on fics easily.
If you felt this was an attack on yourself then you're part of the problem <3
⤷ ゛tags— something at first sight ꩜ fluff ꩜ a little misogyny here and there ꩜ mentions of unhappy marriage ꩜ flirting/banter
⤷ ゛ Series Masterlist ♡
Anniversary has always been a sore spot for you. Why wouldn’t it? After having bore the brunt of the aftermath, the flavour of a shallow gathering only ever left the bitterest aftertaste on your tongue. Twenty years of your lucid memory had gone by, watching the same clockwork movement of monotony on a day your parents were supposed to enjoy every moment — how could the thirtieth year be any different? Especially if the cruise had the same throng, same tasteless people stuffing their palate in a show of love when you know they had none.
You let your arm fall from the side of the tub to the water inside, the splash echoing in the empty stainless bathroom. Your head limped back on the tub’s marble as your eyes flit to the dress hanging on the hanger near the mirror. Another expensive piece, courtesy of your mother. Even in all the glitz and pizzazz, they remained as bland as ever. Same old routine, same old speech, same old ending. You had seen this movie enough times to know every movement by heart now.
The water had cooled down to a chilly sheen over your skin, and the glass of the mirror had fogged, and it would only be a matter of time until the tips of your fingers wrinkled and your mother threw a fit over how ‘uncouth’ it looked. As if she hadn’t known of the rags before the riches came.
With a heavy heart, you stepped out of the tub, pulling the bathrobe around you to get yourself ready for the performance the night would no doubt descend to. When you draped the dress around yourself, working on its buttons and straps, you almost had half a mind to call in sick and forgo the dinner. But then your thoughts settled on your sister, and her miserable face when she’d realise that you had ditched her to leave her alone in the company of her husband, and that made you backtrack on said ditching plan.
It couldn’t be that bad, you told yourself even when you knew that it could and would be much worse than, well, many things. It was all for your little sister, you sighed, all for her. And well, maybe also for you to reconnect with Kento after his eight years of radio silence… that is, if your parents had the dignity to invite him. Granted, you weren’t the picture perfect image of corporate excellence that your younger sister was, an image that your parents very much wanted to sell to the world, whatever, with you being the Heiress of Nexus International — but you weren’t stupid. You had been carved out from the same alloy your sister had been extracted from. You knew the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the good and the bad — mostly bad — of high society. Deep down, you had a hunch about why Kento’s radio silence had happened, and why exactly, his appearance had come now, and only now, after four years of your sister’s marriage had passed.
You sighed once again. Damn your father, really. He was less of a dad, and more of a patriarch. You saw how he assessed things not in emotions and people and humans, but in chess pieces, and contracts, and mergers. What was individual identity to him if he could turn it into a corporate ladder for him to climb?
It had all happened at the most coinciding time for you to not notice it: Kento’s scholarship, your sister’s marriage, the merger with ZenithCorps. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what and how things happened in the exact same order. And why did they happen in the first place. All your life, you had seen the women around you carve a vessel out of their own beings to help the men step up on it to their success. You had hoped your sister would escape it. She did, in some ways, but at what cost? Would one really call it an escape when her name still ended with Zen’in? Were the efforts of her hard work enough if her name still came after her husband’s and her conglomerate — though far more successful than Naoya’s — still felt shrouded under the shadow of his business? Your mother’s support had been instrumental in your father’s success, but at dinners, in gatherings, nothing of the sort would slip his tongue, as if the mere mention of the word “support” from his wife would sully his existence as a self-made man. These little drops filled you to the brim with hatred at superficial marriages. Why marry when you could not uphold the value and tradition of it? Why must you go through these trials and tribulations just to be nullified by a privileged brat going through the motions of daily life on nothing but the steps having been built by others’ work.
So you swore it, and fought twice as hard to keep yourself from some shitty business partnership disguised as a proposal. In a way, this cruise was a gamble for you. You could easily be led in another union as your sister’s loveless marriage, to save your father’s shares, and you’d have no way to refuse it. Not when you were busy playing the part of the dutiful oldest daughter.
You lifted your head to look yourself in the eye through the parting glass. Everything was set, from your hair to your dress. Eyes to the jewels on your body. A sight to behold, an object of envy, but deep inside, all you ever felt was hollow. This was a broken home, after all.
Pretension is purely a human trait. When others’ do it, people call it hypocrisy, but when they do it themselves, it’s considered worldly.
You picked up your clutch and walked out of your suite, steeling your shoulders. And after all, your family consists of very worldly people.
Over the long dining table, the air felt stifling. In the way you’d expect the table made to feed executioners having their last meal. But when you look up, you see nothing but perfected masks and deceiving eyes. In that way, you weren’t much different. Wearing the skin of the person you didn’t liken yourself to be, you nursed a flute of champagne, untouched, and purely for the show.
On one end of the table sat your father, smart, sleek, and reminiscent of the time when he was younger, sharper. On the other sat your mother, snug in a dress that made her look years younger. Was this what your father had done? Stolen her youth? She was quite young when they eloped… or so you had heard. The details were hazy and truth, fluid. But now, even when she was the centre of the attention, alongside her husband, there was a disconnect in her eyes, that said she was no longer fully present in the moment. For people who were different from each other, your mother and sister were far too alike. It was the look you had seen in her eyes too, it was as though emotions lay dormant within her, buried beneath layers of numbness and discouragement. Like she had stopped trying. You had seen the vibrancy deplete over time, little by little as years had stretched in absence of Kento from your sister’s life. Today was no different, because of course, why would he be invited to a party like this?
Clink on glass grabbed everyone’s attention from the head of the table. Your father stood up, champagne flute in hand, spoon quietening the sound of chatter. Towards the centre of the room, a grand piano was placed, and on each side, a cello player. The setting was ambient, but to those who knew of the rot underneath, it didn’t hide the stench. Yet, you let yourself become one with the soft music someone’s gentle hands played over the keys of the instrument. A music score you found endearing, as well. If your father hadn’t been yapping away, you’d have walked to the piano player to strike a conversation. They were really good at this.
“Today,” your father began and you suppressed a sigh. It would be best if he wrapped it up shortly, “All of you, my dearest friends, have gathered here tonight… What can I possibly express about that?”
He was in his element, commanding every single attention on him, stealing everyone’s breath with his charisma, and the energy with his greed, “I feel on top of the world!” Your fingers tightened over the cutlery knife, hoping the steel would ground you.
“My dearest wife,” Your father turned to look at your mother, rudely interrupting her gentle conversation, “When I first met you, I was nothing.” Your mother gave him a smile, and people around — maybe they fell for the pretences — cooed at the action, “And even today, if I wouldn’t have you, I’d be nothing. I can’t say it enough, but I love you, beloved.” You wondered if he paced in his suite, perfecting his line, repeating it in front of the mirror to memorise each word to deliver it with finesse, because for the entire life of you, you could not believe that he felt that sentiment, at least not now, at least not thirty years later, still.
“The world has been very kind to me, to us.” He carried on, and you felt his eyes fall on your sister’s as did everyone else’s, while she herself was lost in her thoughts, her eyes searching for someone in the hall, someone who was not there, “It has given us everything save for one thing.” Naoya’s arm tightened around her, making her twitch and turn to him, and then to father. Her smile felt pained, and you knew only you could tell, because only you knew your sister.
“For my daughter and my son-in-law to give us a grandson!” If Naoya’s arm was taut around her shoulder — heavy with the dress whose shade was like an eyesore on her, yet she only wore to appease her husband — now, his arms were like vices, digging into the soft flesh till you saw indents appear on them, as in warning. If you didn’t know any better you’d walk up to him and smash his head on the stupid plate of gravy before him, and drag him to the centre of the hall to bash his skull a little more, and dig your heels into his balls so that he would not infect any other innocent soul with his virus. But, alas, you knew better. So you stayed put in your seat, teeth gnashed, jaw tight and firmly away from Naoya so that his ugly piss blonde hair would not incite you into breaking his bones.
The dinner remained tense, punctuated only by the most performative talks — that is, until you got up from the table once the plates were cleared. Your sister met you once, among all the eye contact throughout the dinner, towards the toe end, muttering something about placating one of father's business partners over a minor food issue. You wanted to help, really, but you couldn't bring yourself to give a hag about the people here, save for your sister, and the person playing the piano.
Did you mention how every score was perfection? Almost as if they had been playing the record itself. You check once again, and nope. There was indeed someone on the piano, playing away with no care about the people who probably didn't even care about such refined skill.
You saw your mother motion you towards her, and you gave her a tight lipped smile, holding the champagne flute for dear life as you walked towards her. You sneaked a glance towards the piano once for good measure, hoping to catch the sight of the player. When—
Oh. There he was. Stark white hair that glowed under the glittering chandelier. You didn't catch his eyes, but his hair alone would put him on the pedestal of an angel. You stopped short in your track, feet frozen to simply gaze at him, until — until an aimless group rounded the corner, breaking your line of sight to him. You inhaled irritably, for when they left, the man was gone, replaced by someone else. Sighing, you walked to your waving mother, standing with —
Ah. Scarred lips, and pin straight unruly hair.
“Toji.” You quirked your lips in a greeting, and he huffed out a chuckle too.
“So, you've met?” Your mother raised her eyebrow, turning you so that you stood in between her and Toji, allowing her an easy escape, and you, the shackles to this conversation with the Zen’in heir.
“No, ma’am.” Toji grinned, “Mutuals, that’s all.”
“Ahhh.” She smiled, patting his back, before backing away to talk to her social circle, leaving you with a soft but thinly veiled warning of, “Have fun, talk.”
You inclined your head, watching her walk away before making a beeline towards the drinks bar, Toji in tow. Partly (mostly) because the bar was in direct line to the piano, so you’d see if the piano guy was ever coming back. It wouldn’t be that hard to distinguish white hair, no?
“So, how’s the party treating you?” Toji asked, lips stretched into a knowing smile as he thumbed the rim of his glass, watching you play with your own glass, the design glinting on and off under the bright lights.
“Terrible. Thought I can’t complain because my sister has it worse.” You nodded towards Naoya, and then, as an afterthought, “No offence.”
Toji chuckled, raising his hands, “Please. Don’t associate me to that…thing.”
“He’s your cousin.” You huffed out a laugh, taking a swig of the champagne.
“Not if I had any say in that.”
You peeked another glance towards the piano. Nope. He wasn’t there yet.
“I’m surprised they even brought you along.” You observed, and Toji nodded in affirmation, “Me too,” he downed his shot, wincing at the taste, “But I guess they need another representative from the Zen’ins after Jinichi’s lawsuit.”
“Ah, right.” You had heard it, Toji’s older brother had been sued for driving drunk and totalled a bunch of cars. Guess these conditions allowed a near disowned son back home. What were the odds? You were glad that he was way older than you and your sister, or she would’ve been carted off to him. But then Toji would’ve been there to give her company would’ve been a point of solace. Well, there were some upsides to that but you didn’t ponder on it for long.
You ordered two more sets of vodka, “Can’t say I feel sorry for him.”
“If you felt sorry for him, then that would make you a shitty person. Eat the rich—”
“What are they playing?” You mused out loud. The tune was familiar… definitely one of the songs you had been forced to learn as a child —
“Love’s sorrow, Rachmaninoff.” He filled in, and you looked up at him in mild surprise, eyebrows lifting, “I didn’t know you were into classical music.”
“I needed something to keep myself sane in that household, you know?”
You hummed absently at the question, for the mystery of your night had reappeared on his seat, and was apparently packing things to wrap up for the night. You had to make this quick with Toji. But he was observant, for he asked, following your gaze, “You looking for someone?”
“Mhmm.” You nodded, in the general direction of your mystery, and Toji chuckled, “Alright, lover girl, good luck.” He took a final swig, before turning back and walking towards the exit.
Without waiting for a moment, you made a move you had been waiting to make all night.
The man was sitting there, picking up his discarded tux and he was just about to exit with his friends carrying their cello when you chimed in, “Heyyy!” If you could facepalm at just how corny that sounded, you would.
His snowy strands flicked in the movement of his turn — and then you were met with the most impossibly blue eyes you had ever seen. Electric, wide, sparkling amidst all this boorishness, he was the personification of youth. It almost reminded you of an investor or someone but you shrugged the thought off. There was no way a high ranking family was letting someone as charming — at least by the looks — as him go to be a random pianist on a cruise.
“Hey to you too, Miss.” The man grinned, soft lips stretching into a smile that would light up the entire room far more than the stabbing lights, “How may I help you?”
“You play really well.” You offered, unhelpfully.
His eyes crinkled as a laugh left him in short puffs of breath, a sound that was far sweeter than the melody he had been playing some short while ago, “No, I’m serious.” You amended “I haven’t heard someone play L’Inverno or Swan Lake that well in ages. And trust me, I’ve heard many people play.”
“Well.” He motioned his friends to go off without him, a beautiful woman with spiky hair and kind eyes, and this other good looking guy with side bangs, “It’s kind of my job to play well, y’know?”
“Yeah, sorry,” you scratched the back of your neck, feeling warmth rush to your face, “That was a bit…”
“On the nose?” He offered coyly, and you took it, “Yup. On the nose.”
His blue eyes didn’t dim even for a second although none of you spoke for a good few moments. He just stood, assessing you like you were the bigger puzzle of the two.
When silence stretched into a little oddness, you asked again, since the music had changed into something a little sensual and upbeat, groovy if he would take you up on the offer of —
“Care for a dance?” You held out your hand.
His gaze dropped to your hand, then to you, again to your outstretched palm, and finally back to your face again. Under the lights, you could be mistaken, but you were pretty sure that the tips of his ears had turned pink. Too forward?
He bent, clasping your palm in his, as he brought them to his lips, pressing a small kiss to them, and when they broke the contact, you felt tingly all over your hands.
“Do you think I’m that easy?”
“Aren’t you?” You blurted out. Crap.
Luckily, he didn’t take it the wrong way, if his hearty chuckles were anything to go by. Seriously, how did he seem so enchanting doing the most mundane things?
“Top ten worst things to say while flirting with someone, Miss.” He pouted playfully, turning on his heel to walk towards the exit, not before he left you with his final words and a blown kiss, “Try again sometime, Princess. You might be lucky.”
You stood there for a long time after he left. Your hands were still glittering with his phantom touch, and your heart raced at his words.
⤷ ゛tags— fluff ꩜ nautical imagery ꩜ childhood friendship ꩜ planning for the future ig? ꩜ she’s a little angsty towards the end
⤷ ゛Series Masterlist ♡
“Kento, look!” You lifted the shell high up in the air, until the sunlight fragmented on its edge, falling apart around the calcareous surface in bits and echoes, “This looks like half a heart!”
Nudging you closer into his side, Kento hummed a small, “Oh?” Before pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of your hair as he inspected the shell you had picked up.
“That’s a Nautilus shell, my love.” He smiled, cupping your hand around the object gently, “Did you know,” his voice rose in interest, eyes lighting up as information buzzed in his mind, “That they’re actually a group of pelagic octopuses — well, more correctly called Argonauts.” Kento turned the both of you until you were on your side, facing him, and he was looking back at you, one arm supporting your head and the other holding him up, “The female Argonauts secrete their paper-thin calcite shells as brood chambers into which they lay their eggs and in which they develop to maturity.” You grinned, seeing his rare enthusiasm out in the open so undulated, and abashed, he blushed, mumbling out a soft, “It’s interesting.”
“It is.” You agreed, booping his nose, earning the smallest groan from your lover.
“It was also considered a symbol of perfection in Greek Mythology, and I think you may have seen it in your textbooks…”
“The Fibonacci Sequence?” You offered.
He picked it up all the same. “The Fibonacci Sequence. Golden Ratio.”
“So, the nautilus is a symbol of perfection and beauty, hm?”
“Indeed it is,” Kento tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, “I’d say it is a lot like you, darling.”
Joy thrummed into your veins, “Yeah?” You clicked your tongue, “What makes you say that?”
He simply shrugged, lured into your silly game like sails drifting on strong currents, “Because you’re perfect, why else?”
Wind flew into the tower, clinking along the wind chimes you two had made as summer project ages ago, and in the chill, you huddled closer to him, “You really think so?” Eager to know more, your validation knew no bounds, soaking up the praise and desire in Kento’s syllables, you ate each word gluttonously. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, hazel subdued in the folds of his eyelid. Kento leaned down to press another kiss on your lips, then on the bridge of your nose, up on your forehead, one on each eyelid, in tandem to how he clasped your hands, the nautilus shell forgotten in the space between you.
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone more perfect than you are.”
He let you turn him, willingly falling back onto the rug on the floor among the warm marble tilings until you were above him, forearm bracing your figure over his, face to face; lovers separated by the tiniest gap that your mingling breaths puffed along the summer air.
Your nose bumped his, which pulled the softest giggle out of the both of you, “You could say I’m your nautilus then, Ken.”
He inclined his head, blonde hair splayed below you now that he had let them grow longer beyond the strands that would tickle your palm, and quirked his lips, “You are.” He agreed, “I have no doubt of that.”
“And…” you prompted, “Where do you plan to carry your nautilus with you?”
Unphased, Kento huffed, before promptly getting up and picking you up right along with him as he carried you towards the east end of the small tower room, only finally letting you step down beside him. On the walls were faded nautical charts, demarcating sea routes and wind patterns. They were old, but to whoever stayed here for as long as you two did — which is to say, not long enough to turn this into your home — they did their job in allowing you to wander your stray thoughts across the oceans on this paper, a blueprint of freedom on charts, penned down by sailors who lived and died among these same seas.
“See that?” Kento pointed out to a tapering peninsula along the Andaman Sea, “That’s Malaysia, and in there is this city,” — he marked a coastal city with an old rusted pin — “Kuantan.”
He fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, “It’s nice, you’ll like it.” He pointed at the sea routes again, “Three sets of water bodies meet along the Malaysian coast,” Kento’s voice softened to a small hum, “I’ve always wanted to go there,” Wistfully, his eyes flit to yours, “With you.”
Lazy in the slow afternoon, you leaned against him, your ear pressed to his heart. With the crashing waves on the shore, the seagulls’ melody, his heartbeat fit right along, quiet but resilient like it belonged there. You didn’t doubt it, not one bit. His wrists held quite a collection of seashells DIY projects — bracelets, brooch, little bands — you two had made over the years, and you knew that this nautilus shell would go straight to that collection too, dearly curated in the memory of what you two had built over the years.
Kento tucked your face under his chin, before whispering conspiratorially, “I’d carry my nautilus wherever she wanted to go, whenever she wanted to go.”
The widest smile grew on your lips at his earnest words, “You plan to spoil her, don’t you?”
“It’ll be my honour, really.”
If not his words, then Kento’s actions were very indicative of that appreciation. Every turn of his hands, every sound from his lips, every graze of his touch; all that showed you the resilience of his emotions. The promise wafted from his sentences, and you believed it just as easily. Nothing was stopping the two of you from travelling the world.
Yeah, maybe your parents were a bit on the fence about this blooming relationship between you and Kento, but they would understand, wouldn’t they? After all, you two had been peas of the same pod since childhood. Sure, there were differences here and there — what with you being the youngest daughter of a conglomerate giant, and him being the only son to the Manager of said business company. But that was fine, right? It’s not like Kento did not know how the upper echelons had their ups and downs. He might not have been born in high society, but he sure as hell had grown up in one. To learn the intricacies of this segment of the society would not be hard for him. Even if not that, Kento had always wanted to be a sailor. He had been picking up part time jobs and saving up for maritime academy and courses. Once your parents saw just how hard working he was, they’d understand. They loved you, after all, surely they wouldn’t treat you as a pawn in their stupid business deals, yeah?
Looping a finger around his anchor charm necklace, you pulled him in until his lips met you halfway between the distance. Grinning against his lips, you pulled away only to be greeted by the sweetest flush decorating his cheeks and tips of his ears.
“We’ll travel the world, you and me.”
Kento chuckled, “Once I prove my worth that I can take care of their daughter, to your parents.”
“That’s not fair, Ken,” you argued, “I’m not useless! I'm at the top of my business studies class!”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow mischievously, “Hell bent on wanting to turn me into a stay at home husband, are you, now, darling?”
“Stay at home…?” You bit your lips, nibbling on the tender flesh in mock contemplation, “More like — ‘stay on the ship’ kind husband.”
His laugh lit the room, and the wind carried this melody with them to the seashells littered on the sandy shores, which, no doubt would bottle it up and showcase it to the next lover who would venture here in this spot you two called yours.
“How will I ever be able to carry all of you and your brilliance in a little cabin with me?”
“I only ever need you and my books.”
“Noted, and noted.” Kento inclined his head, the tilt lined with playfulness, “I’ll be sure to remember that, Your Grace.”
That, pulled a laugh out of you. Loud and unfettered. You’d miss him when he would be away for studies. You’d miss him so much. But then, he’d be back soon, and together, the two of you could prove that he was a good match —
“I’ll admit, honey,” he exhaled, tone softening into one of seriousness, “I’m a little worried about if your dad would like me to be with you or not.”
You frowned, “Of course he would!” You cupped his cheeks, “Why wouldn’t he? He’d be crazy not to.”
“But,” Kento pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes looking deep into yours, “I’m just me. You know, just me.”
“You, who will be going on to become the world’s best deck officer and cruise captain the world has ever seen, and then he’ll have no problem in letting me go with you.” You wrapped your arms around his torso, “And anyway, it’s not like we’d be helpless, no? I’d have my own successful company, and you’d have the entire freaking ship at your command. We’d make one hell of a team, Kento.”
His lips quirked into a small smile, the tug on them despite his worries clouding his convictions, “I’ll try my best for you, love. I want you to be happy. With me.”
“I don’t think there is anything that you could do that would make me unhappy with you, hon… and my dad will see that, don’t worry.”
When the haze didn’t lift from his eyes, the evergreen concern deepening, you shook him slightly, “It’s hard not to like you, Kento.”
Grabbing his hand, you pulled him towards the window, the one that peered into the vast seas, and pointed at the cresting waves, “That’s you. The waves. And the sailor who will brave them.” He limped just slightly on your side, and you let him, his weight a source of peace to you, “That’s how grand you are. You and your conviction, your determination, your resilience. I know you will weather the storm. Do you not see that you’re way ambitious than I am—”
“No — Don’t say that.” Kento interrupted, “That’s not true, darling.” He entwined your hands together with his, and your moon ring caught on his bracelet.
“Do you see this,” he fiddled with the crescents of the ring, “This is who you are to me. You’re my moon.” Kento’s free hand traversed to your face to cup your cheeks, his lips following suit to pepper kisses on them, “If I’m the tides, then you’re the force reeling me in. Wherever you go, I’ll follow. I don’t know how to do anything else but that.”
Love bloomed in your heart, in every nook and cranny of it, puncturing past the clouds of doubts until your eyes stung and cheeks hurt from the wide smile they exposed. Helpless to his words, you could simply tug him towards the stairs.
“Follow me, then. I’m going towards the water, baby!”
Kento’s chuckles followed you as you ran, his footsteps accompanying you into the open sky and unrestricted waves.
You did not know then, within his embrace that it would be the last time you’d be hearing them in a long, long time.
Because, Kento would leave for Southampton two days later, to never see you again until eight years later.
✿ 𝓜aybe I tried other things (but nothing can capture the 𝓢ting) ⊹ 𓈒 ⟢
⤷ ゛tags— unresolved feelings ꩜ patriarchal views ꩜ misogyny ꩜ unhappy marriage ꩜ she’s a little angsty chat
⤷ ゛Series Masterlist ♡
“She’s not gonna like this, you know.” Your eyes roved over the invitation card.
To celebrate thirty years of memories and love,
We wish you to join us on a 10-day cruise of the Orient.
Just like our lives, this journey won’t be the same without you.
What you could not move over was the taunting lone name beneath your parents’: yours.
Bold, glossed and embossed, sticking out like a strange formality, for everyone who had gotten the card knew that it hadn’t been you or the anniversary celebrating couple who had planned the entire vacation from start to finish, rather, it had been your sister. Your younger sister, whose name was nowhere to be found on the invitation. Not a hint, not a whiff. Erased from existence because her one singular crime had been being married.
“Why?” Your mother placed the shiny envelope with the seal in another fruit basket, readying it for, no doubt, another potential investment candidate. “Did she call you?”
The question made your father look up from his sad dinner of cut-up fruits, too.
“No, but it’s implied, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
Over the spread on the dinner table, you fixed your father with a look, “She did all the planning, no? Not me.”
Your dad exhaled, chewing and swallowing the watermelon cube before answering brusquely, “If we put her name on the card, then we’ll have to add Naoya’s name too, seeing as he’s her husband. And that—” he took another bite, “—would insinuate that the Zen’ins are helping with the payment of the cruise. It’s confusing, not to mention a bad look for our company and us.”
The tone your mother picked to swat back at your father had you slouching in your seat, “I told you she’d be upset.” Every syllable was laced with sharpness and a jagged end you’d largely grown accustomed to. The same flavour of poison that you drank at every dinner and every gathering with your parents, because beyond the perfect image the public saw, you knew that the thing your parents shared — the marriage — had long since fallen apart. A union they had also somehow doomed your little sister to.
“Then talk to her – some mother you are.” Your father’s voice was equally searing — a bait designed for your mother to get latched onto, which is exactly what she did. Face contorting into an angry frown, she lashed out again, “Funny you’d say that, seeing as your ‘self-made’ company is now falling apart.”
The words were meant to sting, to mention your father’s biggest accomplishment, now on the verge of bankruptcy… There went another dinner to the vitriol of the simmering resentment.
Before your father could speak through his blotched face and erupt into another lecture, your mother braved forward with another strike, “I am selling some of my shares.”
Anger melted into confusion, lined along the contours of the man’s face, “What?”
“I need to buy something.” Her even answer frustrated your father even more, for he spat out, “Those Louis Vuitton bags and shoes aren’t doing it for you, now that you feel the urge to buy the damned company?”
“I want to buy my daughter a gift if you don’t mind?” Honey-sweet were the lilt of your mother, but the sarcasm belied the sheer fury. Your spoon clattered on your plate as the words registered with you. Could it be…?
Your father narrowed your eyes, “What gift?”
“The plane that you are selling.”
Fuck.
Your jaw promptly dropped. This was not how you had expected her to break the news to him. You knew the price Suzume could yield for the company. You had made peace with it, in fact, to lose your plane if it helped Nexus International bounce back from the verge of bankruptcy.
“Mom!” You gaped. You had told her this in confidence, under the belief that she would not blab this to your father.
Your father rounded up to you, steering his vicious gaze onto you, “Do you have no shame?”
“I didn’t say anything!” You protested, lost on his deaf ears as he yelled on, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Leave her out of this.” But then again, why would your enraged father listen to his wife anymore, now that he could pinpoint all the remaining frustration on you? “Do you not understand the profit we can gain by selling Suzume?”
God. You did, of course, you did.
Your sister’s words kept reverberating in your head — “Honey, I know that Suzume is your one true love, but our Nexus needs an asset reduction, whether you like it or not. It’s a dead investment.” In that moment, she had seemed so much like Dad, you had almost popped the question about how the man even let someone as sharp in business as her go, and to a man like Naoya Zen’in at that.
“Leave her out of this!” Your mother interrupted your father’s tirade again, and he stopped at the words to turn to her, “And you!” his cutlery went flying on the floor, making your dogs eating their kibble in peace, whimper, “You want to buy our plane, from us.” He clapped mockingly, “You’re a genius, dearest.”
“They’re my shares.” Your mother retorted, “I can do whatever the hell I want with my money.”
“Your money?” A rude laugh bubbled out of her husband, right as the dogs crowded near your feet in search of warmth at the spoiling mood and ambience of a broken home, “You only have this money because I earned it. Me.”
“And I supported you!”
Your udon soup cooled in front of you, as their voices rose in decibels and eventually became static. It was intriguing how they managed to convey their thoughts, explain their ideas to the masses, yet, in the closure of this house, all that wit and expression, and the complexity of emotions fell to shambles. Ironic, really, that despite all that power, the acute lack of understanding between them would be found in just them.
You sighed. At least your sister would be there.
You loved your parents, you truly did.
But something about the aloofness, the quiet, hidden isolation, the opportunism they held in the privilege of only contacting you when they needed you… It made your heart throb with the ache that always ever asked one question — did they love you, too?
“You thinkin’ about something?”
Your husband was beside you, lying down, engrossed in stock market news on the television screen in front of the bed.
“The card… that’s all.”
He ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed, “What about it?”
You hesitated. He was sighing already. What if he thought you were just being dramatic?
Yet, you took a leap of faith, “Aneki told me that she felt like my name should’ve been there on the card too.”
Naoya scoffed, a deep sound that squeezed your insides with desperation, “It’s your parents’ anniversary. They’re inviting us, from their end. You’re married to me. So you’re a Zen’in now.”
Something about the quiet confirmation made your heart stutter, and the protest, a yearn to be acknowledged by your own family, die in your throat.
Did they think the same way, too? That you were bartered goods? Shipped to the Zen’in Clan now that you had successfully taken his surname before your name? Would your identity stick with Naoya’s existence?
“Go to sleep.” He shuts your laptop, switching off the television in tandem, “You gotta pack our things for tomorrow before we leave.”
Exhaling, you let him manoeuvre your figure into bed beside him. What other option did you have, anyway?
The only escape you had ever wanted had been lost eight years ago in eyes so richly hazel that you flinched each time that colour caught your eyes.
Wind swept around you in a gentle breeze, winding around your hair and leaving you bereft with a promise of something new. Around the port, you could see the ship docked and yachts on the edge to take you to the cruise ship.
The oceans were a nostalgic thing, a bittersweet fantasy out of your grasp. Every time your eyes met the crashing waves, deep-seated memories clawed out of the deepest depths of your mind.
Hazel eyes, blonde hair, and a promise that crossed nautical miles. Among the beaches were buried your unresolved feelings. Raw and beating — they hurt you every time you ventured far down the memory lane. Eight years is a long time, but not enough for the scabs to form over your jagged gashes. The little familiarity was a coping mechanism, you could say. The wind bearing the ghosts of phantom touch, the sands of the beach buried with shells that carried unanswered beseeches of questions. Where had your lover gone?
The day was sunny, tingly on your skin like the kisses painted on them by the boy who left and never came back, not even now, when your hands were heavy with the weight of a precious rock that held no meaning because the man who put them on was just as loveless as the union of matrimony between the two of you.
Someone bumped into you, knocking you out of your forlorn musings — Aneki.
“You good, hon?” She peered into your eyes, pulling down your shades to check for stray tears, which, thankfully, weren’t there. You had spent years hardening that shell to not crack at the mention of the name or the sight of that visage.
You nodded, falling in step with your older sister, “Feeling nostalgic, eh?”
“In a way.” You agreed, inclining your head, feeling the sun catch at your face from the protection of the hat, “Reminds me of when we were younger.”
She laughed, a trill of chuckle, and wrapped an arm around you to lead you towards the gathered throng, slowly and steadily climbing the yacht.
“Wild times they were.” She motioned towards the lighthouse, “Remember, we would sneak out to the lighthouse near our summer home? With Ken—”
“Naoya’s calling.” You interrupted smoothly, before she could utter his name and will the figure of your dilemma and estrangement into existence. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you weren’t still brave enough to handle the crumbs of him that people kept dropping around you. Maybe the exposed nerve endings still held him tight enough to leave a sensitive blind spot overwhelming your inhibitions.
You stepped behind Naoya, holding his hand, anchoring yourself to the truth of this reality, to the fact that could not be changed in any form. You were married. Was that not a boundary enough?
Your ex-lover’s presence or absence would change nothing.
The yacht was parked in the dock, and all of you climbed down to walk up the ramp to the cruise. The clamour was brittle and grating, but in the end, everything settled down to a gentle chatter on the observation point.
The crew stood in a neat little formation to greet the main VIPs of the cruise. It was all so reminiscent of the dreams you had made, it almost stung. Sailor, and his little cabin, where you’d travel alongside him—
“I hope you had no trouble boarding the ship.”
You blinked. No. That could not be.
Naoya followed suit, an arm tight around your waist, pulling you by his side in a warning embrace. Your father grinned, wide and performative, but your eyes stuck to the person greeting him.
Beside you, your sister gaped. Tact and grace forgotten, her jaw hung open before she nudged you hard enough to alert your husband, “Isn’t that—?”
You swallowed, lips parted in a soundless gasp, “It is.”
“Fancy seeing you here, Kento-Kun.” Your mom greeted, shaking his outstretched hand warmly, “It’s such a pleasant surprise.”
The boy who had grown up with you was no longer a boy. Beneath his uniform, you could see the taut lines of his muscles, honed after years of vigorous practice and effort. His head held the navy blue and white cap, shirt complete with the blue tie and epaulet — no one could tell this was once the boy who held your hand as you two ran to the lighthouse, talking of dreams that would all be for naught, lost to the harsh demands of the world, and break under the unforgiving weight of propriety, traditions and high society.
“So, we’re in good hands then, right, Cap?” Your father chuckled, patting his shoulder, and unfazed, his reply came just as sure, “Indeed you are, Sir.”
“Right, introductions over there, Kento,” your mother motioned towards your sister and you, standing agape and shocked, “That’s our son-in-law, Naoya Zen’in.”
Hazel eyes met yours, and for a minute, everything stopped. And then, like a path forming, memories, suppressed and loathed, all rushed into your periphery. Normally, you would hate Naoya’s callous grip; today, you are glad that it is there to help you stare into a once deeply loved face without letting you falter and fall to your knees.
“Zen’in Naoya,” your husband extended his hand towards him, “And this is my wife,” Your name followed from his lips as an afterthought, as if all you’d ever be would be his wife, and not the business mogul who made it to the Top Ten of Forbes list.
Calloused palm wrapped around privileged ones in a shallow shake, “Captain Nanami Kento. Welcome aboard.”
A/N: I've been wanting to write something with the idea of soulmates, and my brain came up with this! I am sorry if how I decided to use the trope is a bit confusing, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Kisses <3
Content: Nanami x female reader, office romance, soulmate au, fluff, teeny bit of angst. Barely proof-read.
Word count: 3.6K
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
You awoke with a groan.
It had happened again. Those visions that haunted your nights. Except every time the dreams lured you into their trance, they seemed even more vivid than before.
You tried rubbing the grogginess from your eyes, the remnants of your dream still teasing at the periphery of your vision. Slowly withdrawing into the confines of your consciousness.
Or rather his consciousness, whoever he was.
That pervasive dream. It stole away at your attention. Invited itself into your thoughts like an unwanted intruder. Snuck into the very fabric of your mind at night.
You were adrift in the ocean, basking under warm sunlight. Its rays caressed your face with gentleness that was way too foreign to be real. A salted breeze fanned wet skin and filled your lungs.
In went the air, more invigorating than any other breath you had ever taken and out went the strife. The stress. The pain.
You sat up, finding yourself miraculously floating over the waters as you observed their lapis expanse. The way the waves seemed to twinkle with every ripple, as if winking back at the sun itself.
And then you saw him. Walking by the shore, waving to you. Shrouded in light, but at the same time taken by immense obscurity. You dared wave back; you dared hope to share in this moment of bliss.
And in an instant, you saw his very being shatter. The haze of your reverie slipping, again, dispersing into the confines of your consciousness.
You had lost track of how many times you had awoken and unleashed your frustration upon your poor pillow. You eyed it wearily, feeling a semblance of pity for the inanimate object.
Today was not worth damaging your vocal folds —or hurting your pillow's imaginary feelings for that matter—regardless of how frustrated you felt. With a huff, you tossed your sheets aside and planted your feet to the ground.
Focus, babe. You breathed. Today was not a day you could afford to be lost to the lingering despair that always clouded your thoughts after the dream.
Today was important. You needed all of your senses.
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
Pulling the sleeve of your dress shirt up your arm, your eyes scanned the surface of your analog watch. Barely anyone seemed to use them these days anymore. But your affinity for them had never left you. The second of effort your mind always exerted to decipher the digitless chart always helped ground you.
[7:28a.m.]
You sighed. You should have taken your time to fix breakfast or at least grab a bagel and coffee. But instead, you were here. In the empty conference room —whose AC unit always blew a tad bit too cold— almost an hour early to your presentation.
Just great.
You plopped down on one of the leather-clad seats and pulled your phone from your pocket. Toggling the camera to the front, you tilted it to your face and began examining your makeup and outfit again. Today's attire consisted of a copper waistcoat and matching slacks over a white button up. And your thick hair was pinned down in the classiest style you had been able to achieve.
If any of your work friends had seen you like this, they would have squealed and asked you to pose for pictures. You could already hear their voices ring in your head.
Girl quit frowning and strike a pose!
If you dressed like this more often, you would have found your soulmate long ago!
And there was that word again.
Just the thought of it made you drop your phone facedown against the table. You resisted the urge to rub at your eyes and inadvertently smudge your mascara.
Damnit. You were supposed to not think about the damn dream.
All your friends —as lovely as they could be— only harped on about a single thing.
Soulmates, soulmates, soulmates.
It was easy for them.
Afterall, they already had their fated other halves. Living in the miraculous bliss of fulfilment that being with your mate was supposed to bring.
And you tried oh so very hard to not resent every moment of it. The way their eyes would round out with pity when the topic of you not having found one came about. Or how they seemed genuinely concerned about you being past the normal age for settling down with a mate. And all those damn articles they would send about not all hope being lost and people finding their mates in old age.
'I am fine, really' had become your mantra. Reminding them that one didn't need to be tied down to someone to feel true fulfillment. That your purpose was greater than threads of destiny tied to a stranger.
At times, you truly felt at peace with that resolution.
So why on earth was fate hellbent on tormenting you with the dreams? Always the same format; the inexplicable bliss, then shattered by unfathomable despair.
Why would life not allow you to move on with this acceptance. This... shame you had grown accustomed to?
"Today's the worse day to torment me," the words escaped you, directed at the universe as your head lulled back against the chair. Your eyes were to the ceiling, and you barely registered the sound of someone letting themselves in the room.
"I did not know you found my presence such a burden, Ms. ___," a smooth baritone cut through your thoughts, and your back straightened up immediately.
Before you, had appeared your co-worker, the head of the performance evaluation team, the single scariest person in your department, the ever-stoic Nanami Kento.
The man went by many monikers:
Bringer of demotions. Terror or the cubicle. Looks like could kill you, would kill you.
And for you today, the sole reason why you had bothered dressing up. You stood to greet him with a quick bow, and he simply raised a polite hand to dismiss it.
Still, you waited until he had taken a seat before following, suddenly hyper-aware about every facet of your being in the space.
"You are allowed to relax, Ms. ___. I do not base my evaluations on how long employees can hold their breath in my presence," he spoke, adjusting the thin frames of his glasses over his nose as he opened the manila folder he had brought in with him.
You forced your shoulders to relax. "Of course, Mr. Nanami," you were trying so very hard to sound casual.
But you needed a good evaluation from him today.
Your entire promotion hinged on it. And if there was something you reminded yourself you had a firm grasp on —and was willing to fight for—it was your career. You placed your hands in your lap, mustering the most polite smile you could before addressing him. Opportunities for small talk with the elusive man were rare, so maybe it was a good idea to get him to warm up to you before he witnessed the single most nervous moment of your year.
"It is rather early, Mr. Nanami," your eyes drifted back to your watch.
[7:54a.m.]
"My presentation does not start for another half hour."
He looked at you through his glasses, then raised his chin to meet your gaze. "I simply enjoy gathering my bearings around a room before important events," you nodded along, lips pursed.
He sounded just as stuck-up as he was rumored to be.
Still, you had to admit you respected him. A man who had worked himself up to a position of essentiality was not something you could turn a blind eye to. He was needed by the company. And carried himself with all the dignity that came with such knowledge.
A foreign feeling bloomed in your heart. Not quite as green and ugly as jealousy, but smelling enough like envy to get you to reprimand yourself.
You wanted to be needed.
No idea good enough to break the stale silence with the man came to mind, so you simply sat together until your watch's needles aligned to 8:20 a.m., and the slew of supervisors, investors and inspectors trickled into the room.
You stood and took your place behind the board, pointer secured firmly between your fingers.
This is the one thing you can control. You reminded yourself.
You set your heart, resolute on a single goal. You would not let this opportunity vanish into a wisp of smoke. Fade away from your grasp like those damn dreams.
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
"She's really good," Haibara breathed, settling in the seat across from Kento. The man's office was not too big, but imposing enough to signal his value to the company. Every object sat in a space that was decided with great intentionality, a degree of care that might have seemed weird to those who did not really know Kento.
The taupe area rug in the center of the room, the ball pendulum on his table. And a new addition, an old analog clock hung on the wall. Haibara did not think to mention the antique, judging that its presence was maybe not too far out of his friend's regular aesthetic.
"It's an easy promotion. I don't understand why I specifically needed to sign off of this. Anyone with a functioning brain could tell that her project's ideas and execution were near flawless," Nanami's pen slid through the performance report, his sharp handwriting doling out pointed, but generally positive assessments in the form of measured compliments.
Haibara shrugged, slacking against his chair. "Honestly, couldn't tell you why," he yawned, cocking his head in thought. "Though I guess it might have to do with the whole non-mated people are unfit thing" his voice pitched higher when he mimicked the remarks. Haibara scoffed. "As if not being able to find a stranger among 8 billion people is a reflection of someone's moral character or something."
The sound of pen against paper ground to a halt, and Kento's eyes remained fixed to the document in front of him.
There he felt it, creeping into his chest. A familiar but lingering discomfort.
Almost as if it had never stopped, his pen continued to glide over the assessment.
Nothing good would come from dwelling on the remarks, no matter how they agitated long-buried feelings. He reminded himself, practising the mantra like he had everyday for a decade.
All that was needed now was a signature. But as his gaze lingered over the letters of your last name, Kento couldn't help but become hyper-aware of the sound of the clock on his wall. The ticking of arms against the fabric of time. Frantic.
Running out.
Just like in his dreams.
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
"Have you thought about posting your dream on an online forum?" Utahime leaned over to your cubicle, her hair styled with her characteristic bow. "My cousin was able to find her soulmate like that! No need to go around touching random people like a creep."
"And that is how you profile yourself as a lone, desperate woman that an online psycho can stalk," you replied, typing away at your keyboard. This had unfortunately not been the craziest suggestion you had heard, and the thought alone made you want to crash your face into your desk.
"She'd have a better chance at finding someone if she just put herself out there more often," Shoko commented from your other side.
"Guys." You pushed away from your chair, giving each one of the women a pointed look, "I literally just got promoted. Can we just focus on the one success I just experienced, rather than dwelling on the fatal flaw that is me being single?"
Your friends offered sincerely apologetic smiles, and erupted in a chorus of sorrys.
You slid back closer to your desk, and the peace seldom lasted a few moments before your phone buzzed with a notification.
Satoru's name popped up on your groupchat, a long string of text about you all needing to go to dinner to celebrate your promotion soon filling your screen.
Truthfully, you had wanted to just go home and cuddle with Mr. Wuzzy (yes, your cat plushie) but when he offered to pay for the most expensive Hibachi place around as a gift, you were sold.
At least you wouldn't be at home, left alone to wallow in your thoughts.
You watched as your clock hit [6:00 p.m.] and started packing your handbag.
Yes, you deserved to enjoy yourself today. Fuck the loneliness and fuck your damn soulmate, whoever he was.
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
Kento should have known that Haibara had not come to his office for simple small talk. His dear friend had ended up dropping a load of work ahead of a company merger that was coming up the following week.
And being the ever-responsible man he was, Kento decided to get a significant head start on the work.
His lockscreen came alive with a single tap.
[9:08 p.m.]
His weekday TV show would have aired about an hour and a half ago, and the cold tea he had steeped earlier in the day was probably bitter by now. He sighed, making a resolution to request a double rate for this overtime, rather than the regular time and a half.
That was the least that the inconvenience was worth...
Walking past the little commercial district that bordered the company at this time was always an entertaining sight. It woke his mind from the soulless daze that work tended to bring upon him. His eyes lighting up with interest, seeing how people decided to drink themselves into a stupor on a weekday, or how couples pretended to ignore the sweltering summer heat as they pressed close to each other.
But most of all, the view reminded him of that dream.
He stood in the middle of a busy street, countless masses of people floating by. All with clear destinations. Unfaltering steps. And all in pairs. Their faces were obscured but only one thing stood out. Their smiles. Wide, almost comical —but mocking.
Nanami weaved through the masses, a single body moving against the wave of people. He bumped against their light bodies, but never seemed to be able to disturb them. Never to wake them from their dream-like joy.
His arms were starting to tire, his breath heavy until he saw someone. Crouched by the pavement, head on her knees. The single break in the insistent deluge of people. His skin prickled at the sight, his heart rate picking up, stirred by an exhilarating anticipation.
He reached out —but suddenly, the ticking of a clock in the distance. Loud and all-consuming. In an instant, she was swallowed by the mass of people. Disappeared under their floating bodies. A simple wisp in the evening air. Almost as if she had never existed.
Nanami, like many others, had spent most of his adult life agonizing over the soulmare. A dream that originated from the subconscious of your soulmate, and that persistently tormented you until you finally found them. Until your bodies touched.
They were supposed to give a glimpse into their psyche. Their wants, desires or just mere thoughts. Any clue to help find them. Their very own radar. Except this one always left him with more questions that anything.
Too many times to count, he had found himself wandering busy streets, hoping to maybe find his soulmate in that same setting. But the very prospect made Kento's heart ache with sadness.
He always awoke with an overwhelming sense of anguish. A poignant helplessness that only seemed to intensify as time passed by. Those were her feelings. How much he longed to soothe it all away.
His surroundings came back into focus and Kento realized that his feet had carried him all the way to a small nearby park. It was way too late in the year for cherry blossom season, but he had read on a blog earlier this week that some of the Camellias were blooming uncharacteristically late.
A small detour in the path of his already disrupted routine would not hurt, now, would it?
Afterall, Camellias blooms were the envoys of fate. Who knew what awaited him on the unfamiliar path?
-------------------જ⁀➴-------------------
Your fingers traced pink and white petals, humming to the melody of a song you could not name even if asked. You swayed side to side from your crouched position, your entire body abuzz with the pleasant lightness that just enough alcohol managed to bring.
Satoru, the ever-generous soul (or maybe just a show-off) had ordered a particularly pricey bottle of wine and insisted on you having as much as you wanted.
"You don't get good assessments from the terror of the cubicles often! Drink up, sweet pea!"
You do not even know how the white-haired man had come up with the moniker. Or why he, the CEO's nephew had grown so attached to you
Well, maybe it was because you were the one person who did not treat him like a spoiled brat —regardless of how true that was— during his undercover training and on-boarding all those years ago.
You sighed wistfully.
He wouldn't be a bad person to be soulmates with. If only he didn't have one already.
The crushing feeling returned to your chest. This was the part of drinking that was not fun. The inability to push away hurtful thoughts.
Your fingers pulled at the plush surface of one of the petals, the urge to rip it away becoming overwhelming. Maybe you really should have taken your frustration out on your pillow this morning.
"I am pretty sure that it is illegal to damage those flowers, Ms. ____" a voice from behind you startled your entire being, causing you to unceremoniously topple onto the ground. You sat up on your elbows, a curse slipping past your lips.
Your eyes focused on the man who was rushing to help you up, widening at the realization of who he was.
"Mr. Nanami?" You dodged the helpful hand he had extended, using one of the nearby benches to stand up.
Shit, could they take a promotion back after it was already awarded? Because with how embarrassment warmed your entire being, you were almost convinced that was what was bound to happen.
"I did not mean to startle you," he offered, and you noted how his expression was softer than usual. Maybe eased by the weight of fatigue. You had never seen the man out of his element.
You realized that you were staring for a moment too long, and the words came rushing out.
"Ah— of course it's not your fault, hahahaha. I really shouldn't be touching the flowers, I mean, if someone else had seen me I could've been in much bigger trouble, right? Not that anyone would be passing by here this late at night anyway..." you looked down at your watch, trying to read the time but your mind could not make sense of the blank needles. "Well, it's not like I can even tell what time it is—stupid watch—" your mind was begging you to stop, but somehow the instructions were not translating to your lips.
"Are you inebriated, Ms. ___?" the question was so simple, but it threw you in an even greater loop.
"Oh, of course not! I mean, who would drink this much on a weekday, amirite?" a pfft escaped your lips, and you tried to lean against the bench in a show of nonchalance. But you must have missed the mark because instead, your entire world tilted sideways, and you went crashing for the nearest surface.
All you could do was brace yourself for the impact, and hope that the hit would knock you out cold and you could cut the embarrassment of this encounter short.
Hey, maybe if fate smiled upon you, you would hit your head hard enough to completely forget what had transpired tonight.
But instead of a hit came sturdy hands, holding you up against an even sturdier chest. And when the remnants of your sense of decorum screamed at you to regain your wits and pull away, the skin of his forearms —exposed by rolled up sleeves— brushed against your tip of your fingers.
And with that, your very soul exploded in a mosaic of sensations.
"It's like getting shocked by a live wire —not that I would know," Gojo practically developing hearts in his eyes when he explained for the nth time how it was touching his soulmate for the first time. "Like every breath you had ever taken before was simply you gasping for air. It feels like truly breathing for the first time." You smiled, endeared by the poetic turn the usually rambunctious man was taking.
"Welp, I guess I'll have to let you know how it feels if I ever experience it." You concluded, gathering a stack of documents to move on to the next stage of his orientation.
"When, you experience it," he corrected, a resolute smile on his lips. "It will be beyond anything you've ever felt."
Well, this had to be it, right?
Satoru had not lied. Every single fiber of your being, every nerve ending felt as if the molten heat of stars themselves had infiltrated them. As if the place where your skin had brushed had become the epicenter of the universe.
A center of gravity that pulled you closer and closer, until you forgot about your very intent to get away. About your embarrassment. Until you found yourself flush against him, your hammering heartbeat only matched by his.
A gentle breeze passed through the park, ruffling the blonde strands of his bangs, the moonlight illuminating the flush in his cheeks. Gone was the composed man. Before you, stood Kento, raw and unfiltered. His arms drew you even closer, wrapping securely around your waist until your breaths mingled.
"You," he finally murmured, his tone rough with an intensity that shook you. You swallowed, trying to think of something to say.
But your heart was beating way too loud in your ears for you to succeed.
And before you could think of anything, you were engulfed in an all-consuming hug. Pulled impossibly closer against Nanami's body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your skin there.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice muffled against you. "I'm sorry that I took so long."
Tears flooded your eyes, and you wrapped your arms around his waist.
He was real. And he was here. No longer a wisp of smoke, no longer an obscure figment of your consciousness. He was here, and he was in your arms, and you wondered how you had been able to even breathe before this very moment.
And here we gooooo, honestly not too sure about how I feel about this one (I just need to sleep on it and re-read tomorrow lol). Please do let me know what you think though!
Compromise is what keeps the love in a marriage, that’s what you told yourself when you wed Naoya Zen’in — against all wishes, against all odds, against all the blooming, splintering love. Because how could browns of your husband’s eyes ever drown you when the hazels of your lover’s irises had always cocooned you?
Lost to the ups and downs of high society, you had never expected to see Nanami Kento orbiting back in your life. Especially not on the cruise vacation to celebrate your parents’ wedding anniversary. So, with Naoya’s arms around your waist, why exactly were you staring at the root of all your dilemma and unresolved feelings? Why, exactly, was Nanami Kento, or rather, Captain Nanami Kento, the captain of your ship?
⤷ ゛ Pairing: CEO!Reader x Cruise Ship Captain!Nanami Kento
You had promised yourself to never go down the path of like your sister’s loveless marriage of convenience with the Zen’in brat. Never. Well, who were you in front of your parents’ immovable negotiation? With your wedding set with the near outcast son of the Zen’in Clan, Toji Zen’in — sad, really, seeing none of you were interested in each other — the anniversary cruise becomes a resigned affair for you.
Until. Until baby blues catches your eyes, and steal your attention. Soft eyes, softer lips, and a heavenly voice. Who was Gojo Satoru beyond his singing and mystery?
⤷ ゛ Pairing: Heiress!Reader x Cruise Musician!Gojo Satoru
♡𓂃. Written in dual POVs, switching between one pairing to the other with alternate chapters. (Chapters switch between Kento x Reader and Satoru x Reader — colour coded blue for Satoru, and orange for Kento)
Tags — drama ꩜ eventual smut ꩜ unhappy marriage ꩜ infidelity ꩜ dysfunctional family ꩜ angst ꩜ cruise/vacation setting ꩜ upper class society/classism ꩜ misogynistic ideas ꩜ unresolved feelings ꩜ happy ending/fluff
· · ─── · · ─── · · ─── taglist open!
.✦ Chapter Index ˎˊ˗
Act 1 — maybe I tried other things (but nothing can capture the sting)
Act 2 — I saw her in the rightest way
Act 3 — if you speak, then I would move
Act 4 — And then she came up to my knees
Act 5 — then I would run right where you are
Act 6 — Begging, “Baby would you please,”
Act 7 — I never knew you had (such a filthy mouth)
Act 8 — “Do all the things you said you’d do to me?”
Act 9 — But you love me like my mother
Act 10 — Won’t you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor?
Act 11 — And I wash up on the shore
Act 12 — And when you get a taste, can you tell me what’s my flavour?
Act 13 — You would find me at the beach
Act 14 — We can run away to the walls inside your house
Act 15 — We can laugh off things that we know nothing about
A/N: IM SOOOOO EXCITED ABOUT THIS OMG. like. So freaking I can’t even.
I’m a little shy so bear with me, but the JJK server is now up and running!
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learning to grow into domesticity ft. kento by @carlislefiles
best friend’s brother!kento by @delirious-donna
5 times kento couldn’t find his things, and the 1 time he didn’t need to by @caramelluxe
kento married to a people pleaser!spouse by @retiredteabag
yakuza boss!sukuna x profiler!reader by @nanamineedstherapy
3 times satoru almost kisses you and the 1 time he actually does by @akariro
cowboy!satoru and farm shenanigans by @junos-chronicles
⋆.𐙚 ̊ longfic (10k+)
dating actor!satoru includes him live updating you by @mononijikayu
soccer player!satoru x pianist!reader @pillsatoru
underground boxer!sukuna X med student!reader by @noirettadore
married to husband!sukuna by @mononijikayu
coco’s yapyap: I HIGHLY recommend @/mononijikayu’s entire freaking masterlist bc ever since Lia got me on their works I’ve been on a Kayu high PLS PLS PLS CHECK IT OUT.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ one-shots
touch starved!kento after work by @chastiefoul
drunk!kento x reader by @liliklei
degradation gone wrong ft. kento by @chastiefoul
pregnancy announcement ft. kento by @cinnamorollcrybaby
jealous!kento x reader by @caramelluxe
tender love ft. kento by @midoriochas
aftercare w frat!toji by @porcelainut
date with coworker!toji by @mooniewritess
using a safeword ft. toji by @tojipie
heian era!sukuna as a girl dad by @dovewhisper
being toji’s older sister includes a sukuna in the package by @kysyw
alternative!sukuna by @kusluv
study sessions with satoru by @gingerteawrites
portable chair ft. satoru x pregnant!reader by @sashinemis
using satoru as a lipstick swatch by @dayndream
Coco’s yapyap: I hope no one finds me annoying for tagging them so much </3 and also to add, many of these recs were from @/caramelluxe
Oh, hi! It seems you’ve found Caramel’s secret flower shop (it’s not so secret if you stumbled here, after all). And well, what a coincidence that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. Take a look around — if something catches your fancy, perhaps?
The following arrangements have been curated for the sappily romantic season, feel free to mix and match your likes and favourites and ask for the requested bouquet. Hope you like the fragrance wafting around this place and come up with a unique floral collection for yourself!
Ordering guidelines and inspiration mentioned below, be sure to check them out before you send in your bouquet arrangements <3
Trumpet Vine — falling asleep/waking up in their arms
Virginia Creeper — giggling while making out
Coral Vine — using nothing but nicknames
Sweet pea — a hand written note
Morning glory — dressing/undressing the other
Jasmine — painting the other while they’re sleeping
Lily of the Valley — caught in the rain
Clematis — pulling them in by their tie/scarf
Mandevila — answering the other's phone when they can't take a call
Delphinium — prolonged eye contact
Larkspur — kiss attack + cuteness agression
Gladiolus — public display of affection
Silver Dollar Eucalyptus — friends to lovers
Ruscus — childhood friends/crush
Leather Leaf — idiots in love
Bay Leaf — fake dating
Podocarpus — office romance
Rhombus Fern — love at first sight
Huckleberry — exes who haven’t moved on
Dusty Miller — mutual pining
𝑅𝑈𝐿𝐸𝑆:
You can have multiples of each categories, except of: Greenery and Focal Flowers. It is not necessary that you have to ask something from each category.
All the fics are going to be sfw and only vaguely nsfw at best. Please do not request anything too smutty and graphic <3
You can send in your order anyway you like through my inbox! Some examples, just in case:
I’d like an arrangement of Tulips, Astilbe, Clematis and, Leather Leaf!
A bouquet of Peony + Thistle + Trumpet Vine + Ruscus would be great :)
It’d be better if you requested your bouquets off-anon for accessibility of tagging.
That’s all, go wild :)
· · ───── Taglist is open. Comment to be added.
Inspired by Cozy Cabin Café Event by the sweetest, most charming and very irresistibly creative @saelynne and the Valentine’s Angels Event by the ever amazing, insanely talented and awesome @lenessence
"Huh?" you blink up at your co-worker—the person on whom you had the most massive crush to ever grace the earth—as he placed down the bouquet on your desk.
"You said rose lillies were your favorites," his reply to your bamboozlement is utter calm, softness curling around the edges of his baritone voice.
Somehow, you were the only two people in the office today.
Everyone else either having gone on romantic escapades with their lovers, or home to sulk about the sad state of their love life. And for some reason, you'd thought that work would be a good enough distraction from how utterly dry things were for you.
Having your crush at your desk—his frame towering over you with a hand rested on the back of your chair, making your body feel all kinds of hot—had not been on your bingo card.
How did he even remember that mundane fact?
You'd shared it on a random lunch break while embroiled in a group conversation about the language of flowers with the rest of your department.
"I apologize if this gesture makes you uncomfortable," he's already reaching for the bouquet, aiming to discard it when you realize that your silence had made him doubt his gesture.
Oh, what a gentleman. The exact reason why your heart always squeezed at the very sight of his polished form.
Instinctively, your hand closes around his wrist to stop him. His eyes widen at the contact.
"These are beautiful, Mr. Nanami," you rush out, your lips pulling into a smile in the little awkward way they tended to when in his presence. "You really shouldn't have though, I'm sure they were expensive."
"I don't mind," he does nothing to move your hand away. In fact, he relaxes into your touch. As if it was a cool stream that brought relief after a day scorched under the sun. As if all he'd ever wanted was to feel you reach for him. "I'm glad that it makes you happy. I'd do more, if it meant seeing you smile like that." His last words are even softer than before, something almost akin to shyness wrapping them, startling you once more.
You'd spent your entire life reasoning with your mind to be less delusional; To read less into others' actions and not dupe yourself into thinking that your deepest desires could come true.
It was the one way you knew to protect yourself, could you really be blamed?
But in this very instant, with the faint sound of traffic outside your glass-encased prison and the scent of peppermint air freshener wafting through the air, it became particularly difficult to ignore your thoughts—louder than they'd ever been.
What if he liked you back?
Impossible.
"No need to go out of your way!" you pull away, as if scalded by the mere possibility. "You're always so thoughtful with everyone here." Yeah, that was it. He was just being nice, and was the same way with everyone.
Nanami's brow scrunch, and he leans a little closer. Allowing you to catch the faint scent of cedarwood in his cologne; to see the peach fuzz at the angle of his jaw. You physically gulp, leaning back into your chair.
"I don't want to take care of everyone. I want to take care of you. I want to make you happy, _____." There it was, as direct as one could be. "Tell me if you’d like me to step back. But I think it’s time I stop being subtle."
"Subtle?" you're almost breathless, heart hammering against your chest and pulsing in your ears. This couldn't be happening, right?
"Yes, ______. I like you. Quite a lot, actually. I’ve been trying to get your attention for months now… without much success, evidently." He exhales softly. "If you want me to stop, tell me. I will. But if not, I would love to take you out some time."
"I—what—," you are positively stunned, mouth agape and eyes stuck on his form. A chuckle flits through his lips before his shoulders relax.
You really had been oblivious this whole time; completely impermeable to his little attentions and expressions of affection. Nanami pulls back and returns to his upright position, a hand slipping into the pocket of his tan suit.
"How about this. I have a dinner reservation at eight tonight." He adjusts his cuff calmly. "If you’re willing, text me an address and I’ll pick you up. We can talk about this properly—over good food and wine." He offers a smile, one of those rare ones that made the skin around his cheeks dip into a slight dimple.
Your heart is sent into overdrive.
And that is how he leaves you. Flustered, reeling and thoroughly stunned at the fact that you had somehow secured a date with the most attractive man you knew.
Happy Valentine's, I guess.
--------------------------------
I just wanted to write something for Valentine's lol
In the arms of your lover, your senses are engulfed with his homely sandalwood cologne; gentle and tender like the ghosting touch of his fingertips on your exposed back. Kento’s kisses are like his touch too, sugary and decadent, laced with the conviction of a happily ever after.
Everyone knows that Nanami Kento can handle his liquor, but only you know that the alcohol buzzes with his sensibility even with a few meagre shots when he had already gotten drunk off of your touch and scent. From there on it doesn’t take long for him to loosen that steely composure — how can he, when your touch is a bribe enough, when your syllables wrap snugly around the thread of his sanity and pull. Softly, barely, and he unravels akin to a silk thread slipping loose from the benevolent hands of divinity incarnate.
Neither of you two are big on parties, especially not on days where you’d rather spent lathering love on each other in the sanctity of your home. It’s cold enough outside — dead of February — who would go out to exchange stiff pleasantries when you could stay home, cocooned in messy sheets and indented pillows, listening to each other’s breaking sounds of passion rent and echo from the four walls of your bedroom?
Counterproductive, really.
It’s rare that any of you are seen out, loosened from the corporate shackles and letting go of your inhibitions — rare, like today.
Valentine’s Day.
It was good on Kento to have cross checked the restaurant that would have a less busy schedule as compared to the ones flocked by young couples and extreme promises that would never be kept, but he found one nonetheless. It was a small affair, just you two, and your sister and Satoru; always a sucker for double dates, you know?
A considerable amount of red wine in, Satoru was incoherent, your sister sensible enough to stop her fiancé from tipping any other glass further. Beside you, you could see Kento’s heady flush crawl up his neck, a telltale sign that he’d be approaching his limit soon, too. From there on, it was quick work. Bills, tips, goodbyes, and a quick drive home.
Stumbling, you unlocked the door of your apartment. Kento’s breathy chuckle makes you smile, too, a priceless harmony, a treasure he makes sure only you can access.
“I’m sorry for being an extra weight, darling—” His voice is apologetic, even as he leans on your shoulder, chin tucked on the skin just enough so that you don’t have to bear his full weight, and you quiet him down just as quick, “None of that, honey.” You pull him, his hands warm in your equally warm embrace, towards your bedroom.
It’s unkempt from the morning, stationary in their perfect chaos. The entire room permeates with the aroma of Hydrangeas, the bouquet Kento had gotten for you that morning, complete with litters of Morning Glory to complement the periwinkle blue of the petals.
“Oh…” There’s a frown gracing your beloved’s lips, supposedly from the mess of flowers on the bed, “I’ll clean it—”
So fretful, your darling.
Uncaring for his half hearted protests, you pull him right in the middle of the strewn arrangement, and musky sheets, they reek of the morning happenings, and somehow, it makes the sentiment sound all the more loud over your beating heart.
Kento plops down in the centre, his body betraying his sluggishness as he stabilises himself on his hands. His face is flushed, lips swollen from the sheer number of times he’s been kissed by your desperate lips all through today. Drunkenness has made him bolder too, for his bow tie and the top few buttons of his tuxedo are undone. There are lipstick marks decorating his neck and throat, all eager to have you stake your claim over his unmarred skin.
“Come closer, darling.” He mumbles, abashed and blushing, pulling your hands just for you to fall in line beside him, in his inviting arms. The action pulls a laugh from the both of you, drunk in each other’s love and unrestrained.
“I’m here, my love.” You coo back, running your hands through his hair. They’re no longer in their perfect set position either, just like yours having slipped from their elegant updo. Nothing about either of you speaks of innocence or propriety. All those flimsy terms have lost meaning among the same sheets where your lips pressed against his, and his composure broke over and over at your own unbecoming.
“You’re stunning.” He whispers, tucking your hair behind your hair as his other hand slips to your back. They speak of unfinished intention, searching for the ribbon to loosen the dress.
“As are you.” You reply earnestly, and wonder if your eyes answer the questions his hazel eyes asks from you, unspoken but heard in the way he looks at you like you’re the only person he ever wants to look at.
“May I kiss you, my love?” Even in depths of inebriation, Kento’s vow to never overstep your boundaries stands, leisure but careful as his fingers tipping your chin up to meet him halfway in the proximity of your breaths. His thumb ghosts your lips and you draw an agonised breath — why was he still so far away?
You exhale a ragged breath, “You don’t have to ask, darling.”
A gentle tug of your lower lips at the touch of his thumb leaves the both of you gasping inadvertently, “I can’t have my wife feeling rushed because of my selfish wants, now, can I?”
You pull him by his lapels, and he lets you manhandle him closer, “I want you, darling, selfish wants and all.”
Kento leans down, you tilt your head up, and in the middle of bated breaths and thrumming hearts, you two join in an intoxicating kiss. He tastes like the smoky spices and strong wine. Kento’s lips move softly against yours, like there is no rush, even when your greedy hands grab his tux to shrug it off of him. He tastes sweet, heavenly so, and you’d get drunk of it for the rest of your life.
When you pull apart, your hands still have a strong hold on his lapels, pulling him impossible closer to you — because what was the distance between the two of you if not a traitor — why be that far apart if you could entwine against each other as one?
This time, even in his wavering lucidity, Kento twirls you around so that your back is pressed against his front, his lips on your back, open to his ministrations because of your backless dress.
“Do you really want me, my darling?” You know he’s teasing because he has that mischievous lilt, one that you tend to enable, to let him have a youth even if he were to get embarrassed about it eventually.
“I do, my love.” You chuckle, as his lips slowly travel to the line of your spine, kissing up languidly. His hands aren’t still either, they keep playing with your hair accessories in hopes of letting the restraint go, so that he can caress each tress fairly.
“I really do.” You intone softly, hoping he catches the desire tainting your syllables now.
He turns you slowly, eyes frozen on your visage, “Then have me, my love.”
You kiss him again, for good measure, and he speaks against your lips, “I’m all yours to take as you wish.”
There is no resistance in his body as he falls back down on the sheets, littered with the arrangement of Hydrangeas, Morning Glory, and Aspen Leaf Spray; only a smile, unguarded and all for you — “Happy Valentine’s Day, my darling,” Kento murmurs, pulling you down against his chest, “I love you endlessly.”
Your reply is a little lost in the way his hands snake to your hips to anchor you further closer, but he knows, you know that he knows that you love him endlessly, too.
A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day pookie biscuits <3 had to start this off with my darling husband
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