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veiled reverence — r . sukuna

pairing — soulmate! heian era sukuna x reader

synopsis — you’re the last survivor of a village destroyed by sukuna, the king of curses. when your soulmate mark flares upon meeting him, you’re bound in a way you never expected. taken to his shrine, you’re forced to stay in his presence, where the weight of his past actions looms over both of you, and the line between survival and resentment blurs.

wc — 34k (i'm sorry once more)

warnings — explicit sexual content (virgin reader), mentions of cannibalism, dead bodies, mentions of not eating, depression, some angst, sukuna ryomen (he needs his own warning), probably inaccurate portrayal of the heian era but i tried my best to research

authors note: hello. hi. sorry for disappearing for so long :( i lost all motivation and it took me really long to finish this. i apologise in advance if this isn't as good as my other works (⇀‸↼‶) but this is specifically written for my cutie sukuna dickrider5000 @kunaniee i love her so much ok bye have fun reading or don't aghhhh

In the Heian era, where fate wove itself into the fabric of existence, every soul was born with a mark—a silent promise etched into their skin. These marks, unique in shape and placement, remained dormant until the moment destiny called. When soulmates met, the mark would burn, igniting a bond deeper than mere mortal understanding. To find one’s soulmate was considered a divine blessing, a path to prosperity and harmony. To reject them was to defy the gods themselves.

But fate was never kind. And as Ryomen Sukuna stood amidst the ruins of a village he had torn apart, he never expected his own mark to sear with pain—nor to hear a scream that was not born of fear, but of something far worse.

Recognition.

Clawed hands carelessly tossed the limp body aside, a dull thud swallowed by the crackling remains of the village. Blood still lingered on his tongue, warm and metallic, but it was not the taste that made Ryomen Sukuna freeze. It was the searing, agonizing burn on his ribs—the jagged, ink-black mark that had sat dormant for centuries now alight with a fire unlike anything he had ever known. This could not be happening. He was a curse. Yes, he bore a mark like all beings did, but soulmates were chosen by the heavens. The gods, in all their cruelty, had long abandoned him. Cursed beings were not meant to be loved. They were meant to wander, to ruin, to destroy. That was the law of the world. And yet—

Sukuna grunted, his four crimson eyes narrowing as the sensation pulled at him, an invisible thread winding tighter, dragging him forward. It was not a conscious choice—his body moved of its own accord, muscles tensing as something deep, something ancient, willed him to go toward. The ground beneath his feet was littered with the remnants of what had once been a village, the stench of charred flesh thick in the air. A smoldering hut collapsed somewhere in the distance, its wooden beams snapping like brittle bones. Sukuna barely noticed. The burn along his ribs was growing worse, hotter than the flames he had set upon the village, hotter than hell itself.

Through the smoke and ruin, he saw it. A figure, small against the backdrop of devastation, hunched over as though in pain. Her breathing was ragged, unsteady—alive, but barely. Sukuna’s lip curled.

Impossible.

And yet, even as he sneered, even as his rational mind screamed at him to turn away, his feet carried him forward. It was as if the moment his eyes fell upon her, the searing pain along his ribs dulled—replaced not by relief, but by something far more unsettling. That strange, unseen force that had yanked him through the ruins, that had commanded his body to move without his consent, now seemed to settle, coiling around him like a vice. The angry burn of his soulmate mark, a fire that had threatened to consume him whole, now smoldered into a dull throb the closer he stood to her.

Ten feet. That was all that separated them. Emotions stirred within him, a chaotic maelstrom that he could not name—because why should he feel anything at all? He was Ryomen Sukuna. He had scorched entire villages to the ground without a second thought, torn through flesh and bone with the same carelessness one might crush an insect beneath their heel. And yet, standing before this fragile, insignificant thing, something twisted inside of him.

Anger. That such a thing as soulmates dared to bind him, to claim him. That fate itself had the audacity to force this upon him.

Confusion. Because this should not be possible. Because curses were forsaken, meant to walk the earth unloved, untethered. Because he was Sukuna, and he had been told his existence was an affront to the heavens themselves.

Intrigue. Because she was not screaming anymore.

Her sobs had quieted into something softer now, though she had not stopped crying. Her breath hitched as she clutched the fabric of her plain kosode, the thin material trembling in her grip. A common woman. A villager. Someone who had been caught in the destruction he had wrought, and yet—the sound she had made when she first saw him had not been one of horror. It had been the same strangled, pained recognition that had burned through him as well. Sukuna’s lips curled, a sneer threatening to form, but for once, he did not speak. Because in her trembling hands, in the way her tear-streaked face tilted toward him with something that could only be described as hatred, she looked nothing like the weak, simpering humans he was so used to crushing beneath him. And that should not have made his pulse quicken.

"You— you— why—"

The words barely scrape past your throat, hoarse and trembling, but even then, they feel too small to contain the sheer, unrelenting horror crashing down upon you. You push yourself up from where you’re slumped on the ashen ground, legs shaking beneath you, bloodied palms pressing into the dirt for support. Your chest still heaves from the sobs you had not yet finished crying, but the moment your wide, tear-streaked eyes land on him—on Ryomen Sukuna—something inside you lurches. That unbearable pain, that fire-hot agony that had torn through your ribs like you were being branded by the gods themselves, had suddenly—cooled. It was as if the very presence of the monster before you had soothed it, like the cruelest, most ironic balm, settling into a dull ache rather than an all-consuming blaze. And you wish—you wish—the fire had burned you alive instead. Because now, with every beat of your heart, the truth sinks deeper, deeper, deeper.

No.

No, this cannot be happening.

You know who he is. The King of Curses. The monster whispered about in fearful hushes between travelers, the name mothers uttered in the dark to keep their children from wandering too far. He was the thing that nightmares clawed themselves from, the merciless demon whose very existence was an offense to heaven itself. You had heard the stories. You had seen the carnage. And now, you stood in the middle of it—the shattered remnants of your village lying smoldering around you, nothing but ruin left behind. But even then—even then—there had been no one left to mourn. Your mother had died years ago, though the village had long considered her gone before that. A whore’s child, that’s what they called you. A reminder of a woman who sold her body for coin, who had left behind nothing but a girl with no name worth speaking. No father to claim you, no family to shield you. The villagers had never cared—not truly. They had never gone out of their way to harm you, but kindness had been a currency you could never afford. And yet, despite it all, you had lived. You had carved a place for yourself in the cracks of this village, had found hands to grasp in the dark, voices to laugh with beneath the sun. Over time, you had made connections—not always strong, not always deep, but enough to remind you that you existed. That you were here.

But now—

Now, they were gone. And he was here. Standing there, four crimson eyes gleaming with something you cannot name, claws still slick with the blood of the people who once walked these streets. Your breath is ragged, your chest rising and falling too quickly, your mind screaming at you to move, to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there—because the moment the realization sinks in, the moment your trembling fingers brush against the mark that no longer burns, you feel yourself shatter. Because the monster who had torn your world apart was the same man fate had chained you to. "How pathetic." The words roll off his tongue, slow and venomous, each syllable laced with undisguised revulsion. "A human—you—as my soulmate." Sukuna’s lip curls, his sneer carved deep with something that balances between disgust and amusement, as if the mere thought of such a bond is an insult to his very existence. His upper set of arms fold across the broad expanse of his chest, muscles taut beneath the intricate markings of his cursed flesh, while his lower arms slip behind his back, fingers threading together in a deliberate show of indifference. But his gaze—four piercing, hellish eyes—bears down upon you with something that is anything but indifferent. Contempt, dark and seething, simmers beneath his gaze as he drinks in the sight of you—ragged, trembling, barely standing amid the ruin of your home. He watches the way your breath stutters, the way realisation has stolen the very air from your lungs, drowning you in something far worse than fear. And yet, even as you tremble beneath his scrutiny, you do not bow. Perhaps that is what makes his sneer deepen, sharp teeth glinting under the flickering light of the fires still smoldering around you.

"This can't be happening—please, it can’t!"

The scream tears from your throat, raw and desperate, flung into the heavens with all the force of a soul unraveling at the seams. But there is no one to hear it. No one to answer. The village lies in ruin around you, smoldering embers swallowing the last remnants of a life that no longer exists. You do not know who you are pleading to—whether it is the gods above, the spirits who have long since turned their backs, or the cruel hand of fate itself. You only know that you are begging. That you want the weight of this revelation to be undone, unraveled, erased. That you would rather be struck down where you stand, your body reduced to the same ash that coats the ground beneath you, than bear the mark that now binds you to the very thing that has destroyed everything. Your heart pounds, erratic and unsteady, as if it too is trying to escape the confines of your ribcage, trying to flee before it is tethered to something monstrous. You want your scream to reach—to pierce through the fabric of the world, to shatter the gates of heaven itself, to demand retribution or mercy or even death if that is what it takes to escape the cruel design woven into your flesh. But the heavens remain silent. And Sukuna is still standing there, watching you. A low chuckle rumbles through the air, deep and laced with amusement, like the distant growl of an impending storm. Sukuna tilts his head, four crimson eyes gleaming with something darkly indulgent as he watches your anguish unfold before him. The sight of you—shattered, trembling, yet still upright—is almost entertaining. Humans had always been pathetic creatures, simpering and frail, but there was something particularly amusing about how you struggled against what had already been decided.

“Done screaming yet?” His voice is smooth, mocking, each syllable drawn out as if savoring the weight of your despair. “Or should I give you more reason to weep?”

The sneer never leaves his lips, but there is something calculating in the way he watches you, waiting—expecting—for you to crumble completely. He has seen it before, in the eyes of warriors who had fought until their last breath, in the pleading faces of those who had begged for mercy before he split them apart.

But you—

You do not fall to your knees. Your breath is unsteady, your chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic motions, but your legs remain locked beneath you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, curling into the tattered fabric of your kosode as if to anchor yourself to something, anything—but not once do you look away from him. Hatred, hot and seething, bubbles beneath your grief. And Sukuna sees it. The realization settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone, heavy and suffocating. This—this—is the man you are bound to. The monster who carved through your village with all the ease of a blade through silk, who reduced your world to cinders without a second thought. The being who should not have a soulmate, who should not be capable of something as human as fate. And yet, the burning has ceased. The pain that had once threatened to consume you has dulled to a mere whisper, an unspoken confirmation that no matter how much you deny it, how much you wish it away—

This bond is real. Your lips part, your voice hoarse from your screams, but when you finally speak, it is not with a plea. It is not with desperation. It is with loathing.

"I would rather die than be bound to you."

Sukuna’s smirk deepens. “Should I kill you, then?” Sukuna muses, voice lilting with something dangerously close to amusement. His footsteps are unhurried as he advances, the embers at his feet hissing with each deliberate step. “If you so desperately wish not to be bound to me, you’d prefer death at my hands, hm?” The flickering firelight carves jagged shadows across his form, glinting off the sharp curve of his fangs as he grins, head tilting in mock curiosity. There is something deliberate about the way he watches you—like a beast toying with prey it does not yet wish to devour. Your breath is sharp, uneven, but you do not move.

You refuse to. Even as he draws closer, the stifling weight of his presence bearing down upon you, you lift your chin—whether in defiance or simply out of sheer hatred, you do not know. “With pleasure,” you manage, voice hoarse from the screams that had torn from your throat moments ago, raw from the grief that still threatens to drown you whole. "Because I would rather have my existence wiped from this earth, than have fate intertwine me to you.” Sukuna chuckles, the sound low and knowing. “Ah,” he hums, and you hate the way his voice slithers through the smoke-filled air, curling around you like something tangible. “But that’s where you're mistaken.” The distance between you is barely anything now, the suffocating heat of the burning village pressing against your back, the sheer force of him suffocating from the front. The scent of blood clings to him, thick and heavy, mingling with the scent of charred wood and death. You swallow against the nausea clawing at your throat, hands trembling against the fabric of your tattered kosode, but you do not look away. “You can’t die at my hands,” Sukuna continues, tilting his head slightly, as if observing a particularly fascinating anomaly. “A little rule of the universe, I suppose. Soulmates cannot kill one another. No matter how much they might wish to.” Your blood runs cold. The weight of his words sinks deep into your bones, lodging itself somewhere beneath the searing mark on your skin.

No escape. Not even death could sever this bond. A shaky breath escapes you, but the panic does not rise the way it had before. Instead, something else—something equally ugly and consuming—begins to take root. Loathing. “Then I suppose I’ll have to find another way,” you say, voice steady despite the fire in your lungs, despite the unrelenting weight of his gaze. "Because I refuse to be tethered to you." Sukuna’s smile widens. There is something darkly pleased in the way he regards you, like a man who has stumbled upon a challenge he had not anticipated but welcomes all the same. “You'll come to regret that,” he murmurs, though there is no malice in his tone—only something inevitable. And then, before you can take another breath, before you can think to run, something shifts. The air twists around you, a sickening lurch in your stomach pulling you forward as space itself seems to bend. Your surroundings blur, the smoldering ruins of your village vanishing in an instant, the weight of the destruction replaced by something colder, heavier. When the world rights itself, you are no longer standing among the dead. Marble floors stretch beneath you, gleaming faintly in the dim torchlight. Towering walls loom on either side, draped in deep crimson banners, intricate symbols etched into their silk. The air is thick with incense, cloying and unfamiliar, and the oppressive silence tells you all you need to know. This is his domain.

His shrine. A hand clenches around your wrist before you can stumble, the grip unyielding, calloused fingers pressing into your pulse. You twist violently, wrenching yourself free as if his touch burns more than the mark itself, stepping back as your heart hammers in your chest. Sukuna merely watches, four crimson eyes glinting beneath the flickering torchlight. "You'll learn," he says simply, voice almost bored. Your nails dig into your palms. "Learn what?" His smirk deepens.

"That fighting fate is useless."

Your breath barely has a chance to steady before you’re shoved to the ground, the impact jolting through your already-weakened limbs. The cool marble floor bites at your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of your ruined village only moments ago. Disoriented, your body lags behind your mind, still struggling to catch up with the impossible reality of where you now find yourself. Then—movement. Figures descend upon you at once, their presence as immediate as it is overwhelming. Hands grasp at your arms, your shoulders, your waist—urgent but impersonal, as though handling something fragile yet wholly insignificant. Murmured words, unfamiliar voices, the rustling of silk and hurried footsteps. You flinch, instinct screaming at you to resist, to fight, but your body remains frozen beneath the weight of it all.

Servants. You barely register them. Barely make sense of the way they flit around you, their touches neither cruel nor gentle—simply efficient. They are ghosts in the periphery of your vision, moving with the mechanical precision of those well-accustomed to obeying. And above them all, the presence of him. Sukuna looms, his four crimson eyes sweeping over the scene, cold and unreadable. He watches, impassive, as the servants move to peel away the soot-stained fabric clinging to your skin, as they work swiftly to assess and cleanse, as if you are just another thing to be handled. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turns on his heel. And the moment he strides away, the moment you are no longer within his direct sight, something within him snaps. This—this—is not where he was supposed to be.

He did not bring her here. He did not will this to happen. The realization only fuels his fury. His steps are heavy, echoing down the halls of his shrine as his irritation twists into something far more volatile. The teleportation—it was not his doing. The thought alone unsettles him, a sensation foreign and unwelcome. He is Ryomen Sukuna. The undisputed King of Curses. No force, no law of nature should have the power to drag him anywhere against his will, and yet—yet, here they are.

Him.

And her.

His so-called soulmate. His upper lip curls in disgust at the mere thought.

A human.

The very notion is laughable, offensive, and yet the searing mark on his ribs serves as an undeniable reminder of the cruel joke the heavens have played upon him. A curse should not—cannot—be bound by something as insipid as fate, and yet here he stands, the weight of inevitability pressing against his skin like a brand. The doors to his study are thrown open with little regard for subtlety. He does not sit. Instead, he paces, his mind a storm of questions and irritation, his fury barely leashed beneath the surface. And when his voice rings out—sharp, demanding—it is not a request but a summons.

“Uraume.”

The air shifts. A moment later, the pale-haired figure appears before him, their expression as neutral as ever, as though this was merely another of his many outbursts rather than something far more unnatural.

“My Lord,” Uraume greets, head bowing slightly. Sukuna wastes no time. “This soulmate nonsense,” he growls, turning to face them fully. “Explain it. Now.” Uraume’s gaze flickers, lingering on the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, as if itching to tear something apart. A brief pause, then—

“The marks burn upon meeting,” Uraume begins evenly. “A response to recognition, an ancient contract woven into the fabric of existence itself.” Sukuna scoffs, his sneer deepening. “As if that explains anything.”

“It is not something that can be ignored,” they continue, undeterred. “Nor can it be severed. Those who share the bond are connected in ways beyond their control.” A muscle in Sukuna’s jaw twitches. “Beyond control,” he echoes, voice laced with bitter amusement. “You mean to tell me I have been shackled to some miserable human girl, and there is nothing to be done about it?” Uraume does not answer immediately. They merely incline their head slightly before continuing. “The bond manifests in many ways. The burning of the mark is the first sign. But there is more.” Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose. “More?”

“The bond pulls.” His irritation flares anew. “Speak plainly.”

“You may find yourself drawn to her,” Uraume says, their voice carrying the careful weight of someone delivering news they know will not be well-received. “Unintentionally. Unwillingly. At times, the universe may see fit to force proximity.” Sukuna stills.

The teleportation.

The way space itself had twisted, wrenching them both from the smoldering remains of her village, spitting them out into his domain. The way the burning in his ribs had soothed the moment he had stood before her, as if merely being near her had tempered the fire beneath his skin. His fingers flex, an unbearable itch beneath his ribs. “You’re telling me this is why I was dragged here against my will?” His voice is venomous, each word spit with unfiltered disdain. “Because of some pathetic, celestial game?” Uraume’s face remains unreadable. “It is not a game, my Lord. It is law.”

Sukuna snarls. “Then why?” His patience is all but nonexistent now. “Why would I—a cursed being—have a soulmate?” The air is heavy with the weight of the question. Uraume meets his gaze evenly. “You may be cursed, yes– but there is no denying that the womb from which you came from was of a human.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Sukuna’s lips curl back, something ugly twisting in his gut, a resentment he cannot quite name. He scoffs, shaking his head as if the very idea is beneath him. As if none of this should even concern him. And yet, the mark still lingers. Still binds. His fingers twitch at his sides, the urge to tear at the skin beneath his ribs almost unbearable. Uraume merely watches. No more words need to be said. The truth is already clear. The bond is real. Unchangeable. Permanent. Sukuna has never wanted to destroy something more. Instead, he forces himself to stay still. Or perhaps—no, certainly—this is the cruel intervention of divine will. For the first time in his wretched existence, he feels helpless. Disgusted. That he, the King of Curses, is allowing his anger to simmer beneath his skin rather than tearing apart the source of his fury limb from limb. That he is controlling his rage instead of indulging in it.

It sickens him.

A low growl rumbles in his throat as he turns sharply on his heel, his strides long and forceful, carrying him away from the suffocating weight of his thoughts. He does not stop until he reaches the doors of his personal library—his sanctuary, a place untouched by the triviality of men, where knowledge as old as time itself slumbers beneath layers of dust and parchment. The great doors creak as he pushes them open, revealing towering shelves carved from dark, lacquered wood, lined with scrolls and tomes that have endured centuries. The scent of aged paper, dried ink, and something almost metallic lingers in the air—a fragrance of history, of secrets forgotten by all but him. These books are not mere collections of words; they are artifacts, hoarded through conquest, stolen from burned temples, pried from the hands of dying sorcerers who thought themselves too wise to fall before him. He has never been a scholar, nor has he ever sought wisdom from words rather than war. But tonight, tonight—he finds himself tearing through his vast collection with uncharacteristic fervor, seeking answers in the very knowledge he once scorned. His fingers, lined with claws that could eviscerate flesh with ease, now trace along the brittle pages of ancient texts. Scrolls bound with silk and inked with the knowledge of men long dead whisper their truths to him. Soulmates. Bonds. The consequences of divine intervention. He reads with a scowl carved into his face, the dim candlelight casting jagged shadows against the angular planes of his features.

And then—a passage catches his eye.

"The bond does not merely burn at first meeting—it pulls.”

His grip on the fragile parchment tightens.

"The mark exists beyond flesh; it exists within the very essence of one’s soul. To be bound is to be drawn—without consent, without reason. Distance holds no power over fate’s decree. One may find themselves in the presence of their fated without warning, without cause. A moment of weakness, of longing, even of hatred, and the soul may seek out what the mind rejects.” Sukuna’s fingers twitch against the page.

That was why. That was why space had twisted, why he had been dragged against his will, why she now lingers in his domain when he had never commanded it to be so. His own soul—a thing he once thought belonged only to him—had betrayed him. A snarl rips from his throat as he slams the tome shut, the parchment crinkling beneath the force of his grip. The candlelight flickers violently, as if recoiling from his ire. He exhales sharply, inhaling the dust-laden air of his sanctuary, forcing himself to keep reading, to tear apart every ounce of knowledge this library has on the wretched concept that has shackled him to some miserable human girl. He finds more. More damning truths, more absurdities woven into the tapestry of existence.

The bond is unbreakable. The connection can strengthen over time, deepening with exposure. One cannot die at the hands of their soulmate. His jaw clenches at the last revelation. That means—

He had known this already, but it was settling in, that even if he wanted to carve her apart, to rend her flesh into ribbons, to rip the very life from her bones—he could not. He could not even hurt her. The idea festers within him, curdling like spoiled sake in his gut. He was Ryomen Sukuna. The one feared even in whispered legends. The monster who razed temples, devoured men whole, and defied the heavens themselves. And now, those same heavens had bound him to her. His teeth grind together, sharp as the swords he has broken in battle, his fingers twitching with the phantom urge to destroy something, anything. But as he keeps reading, his rage begins to shift to something more unsettling—confusion. The more he uncovers, the more it becomes apparent that the bond between soulmates is far more complex than he could have imagined. The books speak of intricate nuances—how the bond can act in a multitude of ways. How, for example, the physical or emotional pain of one soulmate can cause the other to feel an echo of that suffering, as if their very bodies were intertwined. A soul could writhe in agony while the other feels nothing but the pull of the bond, even when miles apart. Sukuna feels his blood run cold at the implications of this. Could the connection be why he was drawn to her so suddenly, as if by some unseen force? Why he could feel her presence even before he laid eyes on her? Why he had chosen to decimate that specific village? He reads further—of the various side effects of the bond. Sometimes the connection grows stronger over time, feeding off proximity, lingering gazes, the exchange of emotions. Sometimes it strengthens through shared experiences, pain, or even moments of vulnerability. He slams the book shut again, unable to stomach the idea of nurturing something as vile as this connection. His hands tremble slightly. He was Sukuna. Ryomen Sukuna. And now, his very soul is bound to this insignificant human. His mind races as he processes the truths laid out before him, seething with confusion and a boiling rage he cannot yet unleash. No, this cannot be. A heavy silence fills the library as he leans back in his chair, contemplating the absurdity of it all. How could this bond—this wretched, divine decree—have chosen him? The King of Curses, born to destroy and devastate, tied to a human who could never comprehend the complexities of his existence. This was the cruel joke fate had dealt him. And yet, as he sits in the vast, ancient library, surrounded by centuries-old knowledge, there’s a strange and undeniable weight pressing on him—one he cannot simply ignore.

–

Meanwhile, back in the unfamiliar halls of his shrine, you sit motionless, your mind an unsteady blur of thought and emptiness. The weight of the servants’ attention has lessened, though their presence remains in the edges of your vision. You barely register them anymore. You are here. Not in your village. Not among the ruins of everything you have ever known. Here. In the home of the man who has taken everything from you. Your fingers drift to your chest, pressing over the place where the pain had once burned so fiercely. Now, there is only a phantom ache. Your throat feels dry, but no sobs come. Nothing comes. The reality of it all settles like a stone in your stomach. You have no choice but to persevere, to live with this awful knowledge. The days blur together in a haze of strange routines and restless moments. In the cold, oppressive silence in the plain, stone room of Sukuna’s shrine, you sit motionless, your mind no longer capable of processing the weight of your situation. The servants, dressed in plain attire that blends seamlessly with the shadowed walls, come and go as if this were an ordinary home, though nothing about it feels even remotely familiar. They tend to you with an unsettling sort of politeness, ensuring your every need is met without a word. Simple, plain food is brought to you—meals that you have no appetite for—and yet, you are expected to eat, expected to comply, expected to endure this existence, this punishment. Majority of the time you stare aimlessly at the portion of rice, a small serving of fish and the pickled daikon, too busy being a slave to delusional plans that involve being far, far away from this place. And so, you try to resist. The impulse to fight back, to scream, to tear through the shrine’s stone walls, courses through you, but it’s quickly smothered by the cruel knowledge of your futility. You cannot escape. The very air here seems to hum with some invisible force, a force that drags you back to this cold place whenever you attempt to leave. The first time you tried to flee, you had barely stepped outside the threshold before the world seemed to tilt beneath your feet. A sharp, unbearable sensation shot through your chest, and before you could even cry out, you were standing once more in the exact spot you had fled from—back in the center of the shrine, as if the land itself had rejected your presence, casting you back into its prison. And so you try again, this time walking with purpose, more determined, though dread tightens in your chest at the thought of failing once more. Every step away from the oppressive walls of the shrine feels like a small victory, but it’s hollow—soon enough, you feel the familiar pull, the tug at the very core of your being, and then–A sharp crack like thunder. The world shifts, distorting in an instant. You find yourself standing once again inside the shrine, the heavy stone walls closing in on you with a finality that shatters what little resolve you have left. The servants don’t look at you with pity—they don’t look at you at all, as if they have long since grown accustomed to your resistance. They simply watch, emotionless, as you return, a failed attempt at freedom.

The days continue to drag on in this strange, suffocating monotony. You have become accustomed to the silence of the shrine, to the steady rhythm of servants coming and going, to the subtle way they watch you when they think you’re not looking. You know your place here. You know the walls that confine you, the barriers that exist between you and the world you once knew. Your every attempt to escape is met with the same crushing failure, a reminder that freedom is not something you are allowed. It is on one of these restless days, as you sit on the tatami mats, adorned with a simple futon in your room staring at the floor, that the silence is broken. The door to your room creaks open slowly, the soft scrape of wood against stone pulling you from your thoughts. You don’t have to look up to know who it is. The presence fills the room before his figure even steps inside, as though the air itself shifts with his arrival.

Sukuna. He doesn’t speak at first. You can hear the faint rustling of something heavy in his hands—the distinct sound of pages shifting, the weight of a book, perhaps more than one. He doesn’t make a sound as he approaches, his footsteps quiet and deliberate. But when he finally speaks, his voice is cold, emotionless, as if he is addressing something beneath his notice. You raise your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, but you don’t speak. The words catch in your throat, buried beneath the weight of your exhaustion, your anger, your resignation. Instead, you simply watch as Sukuna strides into the center of the room, holding a stack of books in his hands. His expression is unreadable, his eyes darker than ever, but you can see the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

He places the stack of books on the low table in front of you with an almost dismissive motion, his sharp gaze flicking briefly to the spines before returning to you. “Learn something useful for once,” he growls, the words laced with something between annoyance and disdain. “I don’t care what you do, but this incessant running is growing tiresome. You will stay here. You will live by my rules, whether you like it or not.” He stands there for a moment longer, upper set of arms crossed over his chest, four eyes narrowing as if waiting for something from you—perhaps a rebuttal, perhaps defiance—but when nothing comes, he exhales sharply, as if your silence only serves to aggravate him further. Without another word, Sukuna turns and strides toward the door, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stillness of the room. Just before he exits, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorframe as he glances back at you one final time.

“I don’t have the patience for this,” he says, the words tinged with irritation. “Accept your place, human.” And with that, he’s gone. The door swings shut behind him with a finality that makes your chest tighten. The books lie in front of you, their spines worn and ancient. Their pages hold the answers you are desperate for—answers that Sukuna refuses to give, answers that you must seek for yourself. You glance at them, the fire of defiance still burning somewhere deep within you, but you are too tired now. Too drained. So, with a heavy sigh, you reach for the first book, the weight of your situation pressing down on you like an unrelenting storm. You begin to read, not because you want to, but because there is nothing else left to do. You open the first book with a heavy heart, the ancient parchment creaking as you turn its pages. The dim light from the candle flickers, casting long shadows across the room as you begin to read. The words blur at first, your mind too clouded with confusion and anger to focus on anything other than the weight of your situation. But as you read on, the words start to make sense. The more you read, the more you realize the true nature of this bond. The pages speak of soulmates, but not in the way you imagined. They describe the deep, divine connection between two beings whose fates are tied together by forces beyond their understanding. These bonds are not a mere product of human will or desire—they are a force of nature, ordained by the heavens, irrevocable and absolute. You pause, your fingers trembling as you turn the page, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. There, on the next page, it speaks of the consequences of these bonds. The pain, the torment, the agony that comes with being tethered to someone whose very essence is a contradiction to your own. Soulmates cannot escape each other, not by choice or force. They are bound together, whether they like it or not. The burning of the mark, the unnatural pull, the sensation of being drawn to one another—it’s not a curse. It’s not a domain of power or manipulation. It’s divine will.

Divine will.

Your stomach churns violently, and you feel the world around you tilt, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The words on the page blur once again, but this time it’s not because you can’t understand them. No, this time it’s because the realization is too much to bear. A sickening knot forms in the pit of your stomach, and you can’t help but recoil at the thought. The King of Curses, the monster who destroyed your village and slaughtered your people—this wretched creature, this abomination of nature—he too was bound by divine will. The gods, the very forces that govern the universe, had deemed him worthy of a soulmate. But not just anyone. You. The words strike you like a physical blow, and you close the book with trembling hands, your mind spinning. The pain in your chest—the phantom ache where the mark once burned—flares up once more, but it feels different now. It no longer feels like the weight of a curse. It feels like something far worse.

A divine decree.

You try to steady your breath, but it’s impossible. You feel a wave of nausea wash over you, and for the first time since you were brought here, you truly understand the scope of your fate. This isn’t something that can be easily escaped. This isn’t just a cruel twist of fate, or Sukuna’s twisted will. This is divine authority. The gods have tied you to him, just as they’ve tied him to you. And there’s nothing either of you can do about it. You feel your hands shaking as you drop the book back onto the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. It’s not just Sukuna’s cursed power you’re bound to. It’s the will of something greater—something far more terrifying. And that realization fills you with disgust. You hate him. You hate everything he’s done. You hate the fact that the gods would curse you like this, tie you to a monster like him. Yet, you cannot deny the pull. You cannot deny the bond that tugs at you, drawing you closer to him with every passing day. It’s not because of his power. It’s not because of his curse. It’s because the heavens have deemed you his. And that thought, that nauseating, repulsive thought, makes you want to scream. You want to tear the mark from your skin, to break this bond, to make it all stop. The days pass in a haze of helplessness, one bleeding into the next like ink spreading through water. You lose track of time, of the hours spent in silence, curled up in the same corner of the room Sukuna has forced you to call yours. The once-blazing fire in your chest has long since reduced to embers, but the weight of the mark—of what it means—presses down on you with an unbearable force. The books remain scattered across the small table, their brittle pages whispering of things you cannot change. Divine decree. A bond that cannot be broken. An eternity bound to him. The knowledge festers in your mind like a wound left to rot. At first, you rage against it, against the cruel injustice of it all. But rage is exhausting.

Over time, it dulls into something quieter, something heavier. An unbearable listlessness settles in your bones, sapping you of any desire to move, to eat, to even breathe with purpose. You drift in and out of awareness, the servants tending to you with quiet efficiency. They bring you meals that you barely touch, garments that remain folded and untouched. You hear their whispers when they think you’re too far gone to notice. Pitying murmurs about the broken thing that their master has dragged into his domain. And though you tell yourself you do not care, you do. You despise the way they look at you, like you are something fragile, something doomed. Yet, you cannot bring yourself to move. Because what is the point? You are trapped here. There is no escape. You have tried, more times than you can count. You have slipped past the servants, darted down empty corridors, even clawed your way up the thick walls that enclose the shrine. Each time, the mark sears, and within the blink of an eye, you find yourself back in this same room. Fate is a prison, and you are its prisoner.

—

It starts as an irritation. At first, Sukuna barely acknowledges the gnawing sense of unease, chalking it up to the exhaustion of battle, the mind-numbing monotony of slaughter. The northern tribes had proven persistent, and though none could stand against him, their resistance had dragged on long enough to be an inconvenience. But then, it follows him back to the shrine. It lingers in the quiet moments, coiling around his mind like a vice, pressing into his chest like an ache he cannot place. There is no reason for him to feel this way. No reason for the air to taste heavier, for his thoughts to drag sluggishly in his mind. Until one evening, as he sits within his chambers, idly flipping through one of the ancient texts that now feel like a mockery, it dawns on him.

It is her.

The bond is acting upon him. He scowls, slamming the book shut as realization slithers through his veins like poison. That useless girl, the one who barely speaks, the one who sits in his shrine like a lifeless doll, is feeling something so profoundly that it is bleeding into him. How utterly pathetic. And yet—he cannot stand it.

—

The door to your chambers is flung open with enough force to rattle the walls. You barely have time to flinch before his towering figure fills the space, his presence swallowing the room whole. “You,” he growls, stepping inside with slow, measured steps. For the first time in days, you stir from where you sit, your fingers gripping the fabric of your robe tightly. You do not meet his eyes, but you can feel his glare burning into you, seething, livid. “Enough of this pathetic display.” Your chest tightens, but you do not speak. Sukuna’s lip curls, baring sharp fangs. “Do you think you are the only one suffering? That I am unaffected by this wretched bond? Tch. Even from across the land, I felt your self-pitying misery clawing at my mind like a parasite.” He steps closer, looming over you. “And I have had enough of it.” Your nails dig into your palms. The rage that had dulled into nothingness over the past days flickers, threatening to return. “Then kill me,” you whisper, voice hoarse from disuse. “If I disgust you so much, if I am such a burden, then why not rid yourself of me?”

Sukuna sneers. “Foolish girl. Has it not gone through your thick skull? One cannot die at the hands of their soulmate.”

“The bond ensures that much,” he continues, voice dripping with disdain. “So stop this insipid self-destruction. You are not a tragic martyr, no matter how much you wish to be.” Something inside you snaps. Your head jerks up, anger flashing in your weary eyes. “You destroyed my village. You took everything from me, and now you tell me I have to live like this? To simply accept it? To accept you?” A low, mocking chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Finally found your voice, did you?” He tilts his head, four crimson eyes gleaming. “Tch. It was unbearable enough when you were silent, but listening to you whine is somehow worse.” Your body trembles, with fury, with exhaustion, with the weight of something far greater than yourself. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The tension coils thick in the air, suffocating, unbearable. And then—Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, as if tiring of this entire exchange. “Enough of this,” he mutters. His gaze hardens. “You will eat. You will stop moping around this shrine like a ghost.” He leans down slightly, voice dropping to something more dangerous. “And you will stop letting your misery bleed into me.”

Your teeth clench. “And if I don’t?” Sukuna’s smirk is sharp, vicious. “Try me.” You glare at him, defiant. But in your heart, you know he is right. There is no escape. Not from this shrine. Not from him. Not from the gods who have bound you together. So, with no other choice, you swallow the bitter taste of defeat and let out a slow breath.

“Fine.”

Sukuna watches you for a moment longer, as if ensuring you do not collapse into weakness the moment he turns away. Then, with a final sneer, he steps back and strides towards the door. “Good,” he mutters. “At least you’re not entirely spineless.” The door slams behind him, leaving you alone once more. But this time, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you move. Small steps. At first, they are barely noticeable. Small bites of the simple food left on the lacquered trays beside your bed, the quiet scrape of wooden chopsticks against ceramic. Small brushes through the tangled knots in your hair, each stroke steadying trembling hands. Small steps across the cold floors of the shrine, guiding yourself to the stone bath where you sink into the water, letting the steam wrap around you like a veil. It is not much. It is barely anything. But it is something. Sometimes, in the silence, your mind drifts back to the village. You remember gathering firewood, splinters lodging into your fingers as you carried it back home to stave off the bitter chill of winter. You remember lining up in the early morning before the sun had fully risen, waiting for the butcher’s best cuts before the wealthier families claimed them all. You remember the fleeting warmth of small interactions—the women in the marketplace who knew of your mother’s shame, your supposed inherited stain, yet still exchanged quiet, idle words with you. There was no kindness, not truly, but there had been moments of something softer, something human. And now, they are all dead. The realization is a sharp knife twisting deep inside you. The mothers clutching their children’s hands. The butcher with his heavy cleaver. The old men who sat outside their homes, watching the world pass them by. All gone. Reduced to charred flesh, torn limbs, bloodstained streets. And him—your soulmate, the cursed thing that the gods saw fit to bind you to—was the one who had done it. The one who had laughed as he crushed their bones beneath his heel. Perhaps he had even devoured them afterward, the thought a sickening weight in your gut. A shudder rakes through your body. You sink lower into the water, letting the heat prickle against your skin, focusing on the slow, hypnotic swirls of steam curling through the air. You try to lose yourself in them, to let them pull you away from the thoughts clawing at your mind. But somewhere far from this room, far from the confines of this shrine, Sukuna feels it. It unsettles him. He tells himself it is nothing, just some lingering irritation from the bond—some nuisance to be ignored like the buzzing of a gnat. And yet, the more time passes, the harder it becomes to dismiss. There is something changing. The weight of the soul-link no longer drags at him like it once did. It does not claw at the edges of his mind with that insipid despair that had seeped from you in waves. No. It is different now. It is quieter. Steadier. Something within you is shifting, solidifying. And for reasons he cannot explain, Sukuna feels it too. The sensation does not fill him with rage, as it once had. Nor does it disgust him. If anything, it is… tolerable. Almost grounding. And that is what disturbs him the most.

Because why? Why should it feel right? Why should the dull hum of the bond settle something deep in his marrow instead of igniting his fury? He loathes the thought. It claws at him, festering like an infection he cannot carve out. And worse still—if he is feeling this, then surely she is, too. The mere idea sends a sharp pulse of irritation down the bond, but it does not vanish as quickly as he expects. Instead, it lingers, stretching between them like a thread neither of them can sever.

—

You do not know when it begins. When the suffocating numbness ebbs into something else—something not quite peace, but not entirely hopelessness, either. There is no moment of revelation, no dramatic shift. Only the slow, creeping realization that the weight on your chest is not as heavy as it was before. That your limbs do not feel as though they are bound by lead. That your mind, though still a battlefield of grief and fury and disbelief, is no longer wholly consumed by it. You feel… steadier. And though you do not want to acknowledge it, though the very thought makes you recoil in disgust, you know where this newfound strength is coming from. It is the bond. The very thing you have spent days resenting, loathing, cursing the heavens for. Somehow, impossibly, it has begun to shift the tide inside you, pulling you from the abyss you had resigned yourself to. You hate it.

And yet—

You take another bite of food. You brush through your hair a little longer. You walk beyond the walls of your room, even if only to feel the air shift around you. You exist, even if begrudgingly so. And across the shrine, Sukuna feels it all.

—

You tell yourself you are only wandering to know your prison, that this is merely another fruitless attempt at escape—if not through the doors, then perhaps through knowledge. But in truth, you know. You have known for some time now. There is no leaving. Not by foot. Not by force. And so, you resign yourself to these corridors, to the vast emptiness of the shrine-palace that cages you. It is beautiful. You resent the thought the moment it forms, but denying it would be foolish. The architecture is unlike anything you have ever seen, a stark contrast to the wooden homes of your village. Here, stone forms the bones of the shrine, intricately carved with sigils you cannot decipher, the markings worn down by time yet still humming with unseen power. The halls stretch high, ceilings adorned with coiling dragons, their eyes inlaid with gleaming gemstones that catch the flickering candlelight. The floors, too, are cold stone, though you begin to learn where the softer woven mats are placed, offering relief from the bite of the chill. The corridors twist and wind like a labyrinth, grand staircases spiraling to multiple levels. You do not know how many floors there are, but you suspect the shrine is larger than you had imagined—perhaps even larger than the village Sukuna had razed to the ground. Your footsteps become quieter with time, learning to move as the servants do—graceful, measured, unnoticed. The evenings are the safest; you have observed the rhythms of the shrine, the times when the halls are busiest and when they are nearly deserted. The evenings are when the servants seem most preoccupied, bustling about with the preparation of Sukuna’s meals. You use these moments to explore, to test the limits of your captivity. It is on one of these silent excursions that you first stumble upon the gardens.

It is breathtaking. The shrine’s cold, imposing stone should not allow for something so alive, and yet—here it is. A vast, sprawling garden enclosed within the palace grounds, untouched by the destruction that Sukuna so often brings upon the world. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers, of deep earth and fresh water. Trees stretch their ancient limbs toward the sky, their blossoms fluttering to the ground like drifting snow. Pathways of smooth, polished stone wind through the greenery, leading to pavilions with ornate wooden beams, their roofs curved like the wings of a bird. Lanterns hang from the eaves, swaying gently in the evening breeze. And then there is the pond. A deep, still pool of water, its surface glass-like, reflecting the moon’s pale glow. Koi fish drift lazily beneath, their scales shimmering like molten gold. A small bridge arches over it, leading to an island in the center—a lone cherry tree standing there, its branches heavy with delicate pink petals. It is, impossibly, peaceful. You linger longer than you should, your breath quiet, your mind torn. You do not want to find beauty here. You do not want to acknowledge that anything in this place could be worth admiring. And yet, as the wind stirs the petals, as they dance across the water’s surface, you cannot help but think—

This is the first thing that has felt soft since the night your world burned. You return to the gardens the next evening. And the next. At first, it is with the same cautious hesitance that carried you beyond your room. You expect, perhaps, to be dragged back, for some unseen force to wrench you from this small solace. But nothing happens. The servants do not stop you, do not so much as glance in your direction. So you keep going. Each evening, when the shrine quiets, you find your way back. You move slower now, no longer pressing yourself against the walls or skirting around corners. You take your time. You run your fingers over the rough bark of the cherry trees, kneel by the pond to watch the koi as they move in slow, lazy circles. You walk the stone paths, memorize their turns, where they lead. There is a strange comfort in the ritual of it. Not peace—never peace. But something adjacent to it. The weight of your captivity still sits heavy in your chest, but out here, surrounded by life rather than cold stone and flickering candlelight, you can pretend—for a moment—that you are not trapped. That you are simply wandering as you once did in your village, lingering too long in the markets, or pausing by the river just to feel the water brush against your fingertips. For the first time since being brought here, you do not feel entirely choked by your existence. But you are not the only one who notices. High above, Sukuna watches. From his chambers—the highest level of the shrine-palace, where the walls are etched with ancient script and the air hums with residual power—he sees you. At first, it is only in passing. His eyes, sharp and restless, flicker downward when movement catches his attention. He expects a servant, perhaps Uraume, but instead, it is you. He nearly disregards you. It is in his nature to take little interest in the weak, in those who are of no consequence to him. And yet—his gaze lingers. It does so again the next night. And the next. Something in him itches at the sight of you. Not in anger, not in fury—those are familiar things, comfortable things, and yet what this is… he cannot place it. You are not trying to escape. Not now. He would feel it if you were. No, this is something else. Something deliberate. His arms rest against the wooden railing, fingers curling against the carved grooves of the stone. His upper set of arms remain folded against his chest, lips pressing into a thin line as he watches you move through his gardens, as if they belong to you, as if this is anything less than a prison. You seem… settled. Not content, no—he can feel the weight of your thoughts, the heavy thrum of resentment in your body—but you no longer seem consumed by them. The pathetic, broken thing he first brought here has started to breathe again. That unsettles him. Because he should not care. He should not feel the shift in your presence as if it is tethered to him. Should not feel the quiet, subtle difference in the way you carry yourself and have it reverberate through his own body like an echo. Sukuna is a god among men, a force that has torn through kingdoms, devoured all in his path. His domain is absolute. His power, unparalleled. And yet, despite all of that—

He cannot ignore the way his body knows when you step into the garden below.

—

Over time, the walls of your confinement grow wider. The slow, reluctant walks through the garden stretch longer. Your hands become familiar with the texture of leaves, with the way the koi in the pond move lazily beneath the water’s surface. You wander beyond the paths you first stuck to, toward quiet courtyards and winding stone staircases that lead to new corners of the shrine-palace. The more you walk, the more you see. It is a cruel thing, how beautiful this place is. A place owned by a monster. You come to know the servants not by name, but by presence—some who seem more human, others who seem barely of this world. They move around you, neither avoiding you nor acknowledging you beyond what is necessary. There is no kindness, no cruelty. You are simply there, and that is all. And then, one evening, in the midst of your quiet roaming, you find the library. It is not like the grand, open libraries of noble houses, nor the small, humble book collections of monks. It is something else entirely.

The entrance is guarded by two enormous doors of blackened wood, carvings of creatures you do not recognize etched into their surface. The handles are cool beneath your touch, and when they give way, the doors creak softly, revealing the vast space beyond.

It is unlike anything you have ever seen. Towering shelves stretch high into the dim, flickering light, filled with books and scrolls of every imaginable kind. The scent of old parchment and ink lingers thick in the air, mingling with something faintly metallic. Ancient tomes bound in worn leather rest beside delicate silk scrolls, their characters barely visible under layers of dust. Some books seem human—histories of dynasties, accounts of emperors and wars. Others are clearly not. The symbols, the markings, are foreign, twisted in ways that make your stomach tighten. This is a place of knowledge. A place of secrets. And so, just as you return to the gardens each day, you begin returning here too. One evening, you find yourself lost in the pages of an ancient text, its ink smudged but still legible. It speaks of the early days of sorcery, of curses and divine punishments, of men who wielded power beyond their mortal means. Your fingers trace the characters absently as you read, absorbed by the details.

You do not hear the approaching footsteps.

But you feel him. A shift in the air. A presence so immense it presses against your skin like an unseen force. When you look up, Sukuna is there. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, four eyes watching you with unreadable intent. He says nothing at first, only observing you as if trying to decide whether you are worth the effort of addressing. You force yourself to meet his gaze, pulse steady despite the instinct screaming at you to lower your eyes.

Then—

“Why,” his voice is slow, deliberate, irritated, “is a human wandering so freely in my shrine?” You should be afraid. A part of you still is. But something else has settled in the space between you—something no longer dictated by pure terror, but by something stranger. You do not look away. “You’ve made it clear I cannot leave,” you say, voice measured. “What else am I supposed to do? Rot in my room?”

His upper lip curls, but his eyes—his lower set—flick to the book in your hands. “Hm.” His gaze lingers before he strides further in, slow and deliberate. “That book is full of half-truths. The author was a fool.”

You glance down at the pages. “Seems well-researched.”

He snorts, plucking a scroll from a shelf as he passes. “And yet he does not understand the difference between innate cursed energy and cultivated energy.” He flicks the scroll open briefly before shutting it again, gaze returning to you. “A human should not be so interested in these things.” You set the book down carefully. “And yet you have hundreds of them.” A silence stretches.

He smirks. “Fair.” He crosses the room, scanning the shelves with absent familiarity. For a moment, you wonder if he will leave, if this conversation is already over. Instead, he pulls another book from a high shelf and tosses it onto the table before you. “This one,” he says, tone indifferent. “Less stupid than the one you were reading.” You stare at the book, then at him. “You’re recommending me something?” “I’m correcting your ignorance,” he corrects smoothly. “It is an insult to allow a creature bound to me to remain unlearned.” Something in your stomach twists at the word bound.

You exhale slowly, fingers skimming the book’s edge. “And what is it you read, then?”

For a moment, he does not respond. Then, almost carelessly, he plucks a small, tattered volume from a lower shelf and tosses it onto the table beside yours. The cover is unassuming, the pages slightly yellowed from age. “Wars,” he says idly. “Bloodshed. Things more useful than philosophy and fables.”

You glance at him. “You have philosophy books?” A pause. Then, to your genuine surprise—

A low chuckle.

“Even the strongest must have something to mock,” he muses. Your fingers graze over the book he has given you. It is not an act of kindness. You know this. And yet, as you sit there, the weight of his presence lingering, there is something in the air between you. Not peace. Not understanding.

But something.

Despite the revulsion that coils deep in your gut, despite the ever-present whisper of grief that lingers in the hollow of your chest, you cannot deny the way your curiosity festers. It is a quiet, creeping thing, burrowing into the spaces left vacant by sorrow. You should not want to know more of him. And yet, as the days stretch on, as the seasons shift imperceptibly beyond the shrine’s towering walls, you find yourself drawn back to the library—again and again. It is not intentional. Or at least, that is what you tell yourself. At first, it is the books. You lose yourself in the scent of old parchment, the weight of knowledge pressing in from all sides. There is power in words, in understanding—an anchor in a world that has left you unmoored. But the books are not the only constant in that dim-lit chamber.

He is there, too. Not always. But often enough. Sometimes he simply exists in the periphery of your vision, draped lazily over a chair with a scroll in hand, the soft flick of turning pages the only sound between you. Other times, his presence is more direct—irritated glances when you linger too long on a passage he finds idiotic, scoffs of disdain when you reference a text he has long since dismissed as foolish. And then there are the rare moments when he speaks. Not much, never more than necessary. But his voice threads through the silence, rough and edged with indifference as he critiques the material in your hands, as he tosses another book onto your table without looking up from his own.

That one is less idiotic.

If you insist on wasting your time with philosophy, at least read something with merit.

Hmph. Misinterpretation of strategy is a common human failing. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

You do not argue. Not often, anyway. But you listen. You always listen. And in turn, despite his reluctance, despite whatever internal war he fights beneath the surface, so does he. Neither of you realize it at first. The way the bond, ever silent and insidious, begins to settle. Not in warmth, not in anything so gentle—but in recognition. It does not ease your hatred. It does not erase the blood on his hands, nor soften the jagged edges of your grief. But the weight of it, the sheer force of something inevitable, lingers between you both. Like an echo in your bones. Like a thread neither of you can sever.

—

So, your life at the shrine begins. There’s nothing you can do here, really, except roam. But ever since these impromptu, silent meetings with Sukuna, you realize that his presence in your life is becoming pronounced in more ways than one. It starts off with new tatami mats. You wake up as you usually do, only to realize that the rough, straw-like weave beneath you has been replaced. The scent of fresh rush grass lingers in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of old stone. Your futon is different too—no longer the stiff, worn-out bedding you had grown accustomed to but something cushier, the fabric smoother beneath your fingers. The discomfort that had once made sleep elusive is softened, made… bearable. You stare at it for a long moment before calling for one of the servants, asking why.

The answer is simple. “Master Sukuna’s orders.”

Days pass, and it does not stop. Your baths, once nothing more than warm water and plain wooden pails, take on a strange transformation. Small satchels of herbs begin appearing at the bath’s edge, their contents filling the air with faint floral and medicinal scents. Lavender, chamomile, yuzu peel—scents that soothe, scents that linger even after you leave the steaming water behind. Then, your meals. The trays brought to you, once simple—rice, miso, a small cut of fish—become… thoughtful. More side dishes begin appearing: simmered vegetables, slices of fruit, a bowl of soup richer in flavor. It’s nothing extravagant, nothing overly indulgent, but it is clear enough that it is tailored for you. The portions are small, balanced. The nutrients, something even your village had often lacked, are deliberate.

The realization unsettles you. It is not indulgence. Not luxury. Not the gilded treatment of a beloved consort or an esteemed guest. No, it is something else entirely. It is simply… care. But that word is difficult to grasp when it is him. When it is the same man who razed your home to the ground, the same man whose very existence is a contradiction to humanity itself.

And then the clothes arrive.

The garments left for you are finer than the rough, unadorned kosode you have been wearing since arriving. They are still modest, still plain in comparison to the silken layers of nobility, but they are yours. The fabric is softer, dyed in delicate shades that feel strangely out of place against the cold stone walls of the shrine—muted hues of lavender, deep blue, pale pink, as if he had given you the sky at dusk and bottled it into cloth. Subtle patterns are embroidered into the edges—nothing ostentatious, but thoughtful nonetheless. A motif of wisteria trailing down the sleeves of one of the garments. The faintest traces of plum blossoms scattered along another. You run your fingers along the stitching, lingering on the unfamiliar softness. Again, you ask the servants who brought them.

Again, the response is the same.

“Master Sukuna’s orders.”

And yet, he never mentions it. Not once. Not in the quiet moments you share in the library, where he only spares you a glance before returning to whatever text is in his hands. Not in the wordless passing of time, where the only thing exchanged between you is the occasional book he sets near your seat. Nothing is said. But the truth lingers, unspoken yet inescapable. It happens one evening, when the weight of silence is broken by the rustle of a turning page. You are reading. Some old philosophical text, one that debates the nature of the soul—the way bonds form and fracture, the ever-complicated relationship between fate and free will. You hate it. It’s wordy, pompous. It speaks in circles, never quite reaching an answer. Sukuna, sitting across from you, scoffs. “That book is stupid.”

You glance up, raising a brow. “You’ve read it?” He leans back against his seat, expression unreadable. “Years ago.” A beat of silence. Then, almost begrudgingly, he reaches beside him and tosses a different text onto the table between you. It slides to a stop near your fingers. Another book. You eye it, hesitant. The cover is worn, but the script is meticulous, the binding careful. It is not new, not something tossed aside. It has been kept. “What is this?” you ask. He does not look at you. “Something better.” And despite yourself, despite the wariness that never quite leaves your bones, you open it. The hours pass in something almost… comfortable. For the first time, you speak of books—not of war, not of hatred, not of the bond that chains you together. He critiques, and you respond. You disagree, and he scoffs. It is not friendly, not warm, but it is something. And then, out of nowhere—

“Do you like them?”

You blink. “What?”

“The things you’ve been given,” he says, voice flat, almost disinterested. “The clothing. The food. The rest.” You hesitate, thrown off by the bluntness. Your fingers curl around the edge of the book in your lap. “Why does it matter?” He does not answer immediately. Then, voice quieter, he mutters, “It doesn’t.”

A lie.

You swallow. A part of you still hates it. Hates that you are here, that you have no choice but to accept it. But another part—the rational one, the one that understands that survival is often unfair—forces you to speak. “…The bath infusions,” you say stiffly. “The lavender is nice.” That is all you give him. He only grunts in response, unimpressed. The conversation dies there.

Or so you think.

The next morning, you wake to find a small woven basket left beside your room’s entrance.

It is filled to the brim with bundles of dried lavender.

—

The changes are slow, almost imperceptible at first. The meals grow more elaborate, not in extravagance but in precision—flavors that suit your palate, dishes you recognize from your village, though executed with the refinement only a palace like this could provide. The clothing becomes finer still, the fabrics layered more deliberately, the patterns more intricate—subtle, but undeniably intentional. Even the bath infusions are no longer just lavender. You find rose, jasmine, crushed camellia petals. A mix of scents and herbs you have never encountered before, each carefully selected. And yet, through all of this, he never says a word about it. He does not ask if you enjoy them. He does not acknowledge the way you hesitate when you notice something new. The gifts simply arrive, seamlessly woven into your days, as if they had always been there. Until one morning, when the servants do not merely arrive with trays or bundles of fabric. They arrive with a quiet bow and a simple statement.

“Your room is being moved.” You stare at them, uncomprehending.

“What?”

They do not falter. “Master Sukuna has ordered it.”

—

The new room is beautiful. It is spacious, lined with thick tatami mats and warmed by the soft glow of paper lanterns. The walls, carved stone and lacquered wood, are adorned with delicate paintings—scenes of nature, of rolling hills and quiet rivers. And the view– You step forward, drawn to the open shoji doors leading to a balcony. From here, you can see the gardens in full. The winding stone paths, the koi pond reflecting the sky, the sakura trees that have begun to bloom despite the lateness of the season. It is breathtaking, so much so that for a moment, you forget yourself. You let your fingers brush against the wooden railing. The faintest breeze carries the scent of the garden into your lungs, and something in your chest—

A flicker. A feeling so foreign, so small, you almost do not register it. But the mark does. It reacts. A slow warmth, a pulse of something eerily close to pleasure, unfurls beneath your skin. It is not overpowering, not painful like before. It is something gentler, something that sinks into your bones and lingers. The new quarters are beautiful, but it is the bathroom that surprises you the most. Carved stone and polished tile, the space is far grander than anything you could have imagined for yourself. The bathing area is deep, nearly a small pool rather than a tub, built into the floor and lined with dark slate. The walls are decorated with intricate motifs—delicate carvings of twisting vines and blooming flowers, almost too elegant for a place like this.

And then there is the cabinet. It stands against the farthest wall, lacquered wood polished to a rich, dark gleam. When you slide it open, the scent of herbs and oils wafts out, so many that you nearly stagger back. Small glass vials, ceramic jars, and silk-wrapped bundles of dried petals are arranged in perfect rows. Lavender, rose, jasmine, crushed camellia—scents you had noticed before. But now there are new ones. Richer blends, exotic spices, deep, warm fragrances you cannot name. Your fingers hesitate over one of the jars. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Everything here is deliberate. And that unsettles you. Because this was not merely placed here for anyone. This was made for you.

And once again, just as before—

The mark pulses. A slow, creeping warmth unfurls beneath your ribs, not painful, not harsh. Just… there. Lurking. Reacting. Far above, Sukuna exhales sharply, fingers curling against the armrest of his seat. The bond is responding again. He does not understand why this is happening, why every small shift in her acceptance of this place sends something insufferably warm through him. But as he watches from his chambers, sees her linger by the open shoji doors, sees her take in the beauty of what has now become hers—

He realizes with great irritation that this feeling will not be leaving him anytime soon.

—

He is watching her again. Not intentionally. Not because he wants to. It just… happens. She is there, standing by the balcony of her new quarters, her fingers ghosting over the wood as if the very idea of having something her own is too much to comprehend. It is a strange sight. She does not look like the girl he found in the ruins of her village, curled in on herself, too broken to even summon tears. No, this woman is different. Still fragile, still guarded, but… something is shifting. He should not care. And yet, when he had given the order to move her, he had ensured that the room overlooked the gardens. That it was closer to the library, that the private bath was stocked with the things she preferred. He had not thought about it in the moment. It had simply been done. But now, watching her stand there, he feels it again—that unnerving sensation deep in his chest, the strange, almost unbearable warmth that rises beneath the surface of his skin.

It is the mark.

It is responding.

To her pleasure.

The realization is infuriating. Because now, he knows—each time she enjoys something, each time a part of her accepts this place, no matter how begrudgingly, it is felt. The bond does not let him ignore it. And worse still, he does not know if it is the bond itself that compels him to act, or if—

No. The thought does not finish. He will not let it. He exhales, slow, measured. This is not something he will dwell on. He has no reason to. But as he turns away, retreating into the dim glow of his chambers, the warmth beneath his ribs does not fade.

–

You don’t even realize when it happens. The teleportation. One moment, the futon in your new room is gently pressing into your back in the most comfortable manner, cotton tunic soft and short, providing extra comfort as you soundlessly sleep on the bed. The next moment, in your sleep-induced haze, the futon is… much softer? As if made of clouds, sprung with feathers. There’s warmth, thick and inescapable, curling around you, sinking into your very skin. The room feels different. More enclosed, the air heavier with a mixture of something clean yet darkly spiced, and there’s the quiet hum of breath that does not belong to you. Your fingers shift against the bedding, feeling silks far richer than anything in your quarters, and then—

Heat. A weight at your back. A warmth so solid it could only belong to something alive. Your eyes fly open at the exact same moment as his.

Sukuna.

He is right there, his larger form looming, the faint gleam of his four eyes now slightly narrowed, assessing. You lurch away instantly, scrambling, but so does he. The space between you expands as you both shift back in sync, staring. His top pair of eyes regard you in that usual sharp scrutiny, but the lower pair flick briefly downward—

To the loose collar of your tunic, where sleep had disheveled it slightly, the smallest bit of cleavage exposed. Just a second too long, too brief to be purposeful, but enough for your breath to hitch, for your skin to prickle with the awareness of it. And then it’s gone. He blinks, gaze leveling again, unreadable. Perhaps you imagined it. There’s a moment where neither of you speak. The room is quiet, the outside world still swallowed in the deep black of midnight, the flickering lanterns outside casting uneven shadows against the walls of his chambers. You need to leave. You push up slightly, but before you can move further, his voice cuts through the silence—low, slightly rough from fatigue.

“Stay.”

You freeze, watching him, wary. His posture is lax, one of his four arms folded behind his head as he leans into the plush pillows, but his expression holds a flicker of something serious. “Why?” you finally manage, voice quieter than you’d like. Sukuna exhales slowly, as if the explanation bores him. “Because a normal human wouldn’t be able to leave my chambers.” You blink. What? He stretches, the movement languid, unconcerned. “Ancient protections. Wards. I don’t care to dispel them right now.” You eye the dark wooden doors leading out of the room, unsure whether he’s bluffing. His expression suggests he isn’t. Still, the thought of staying here, in his room, is unbearable.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

He doesn’t even look at you. “Stay put.”

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, unwilling, but he doesn’t give you any further attention. His head tilts slightly, eyes slipping shut again as if your presence is already inconsequential to him. Slowly, stiffly, you lower yourself back down, turned away from him, as if that will make it less real. The silence stretches. You should sleep. But you can’t. The question escapes before you can stop it.

“Why did you kill them?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. The silence that follows is so long that you think he might ignore you entirely. But then, his voice comes, quieter than before, but no less firm. “I am a vengeful cursed being,” he says. “Born of the hatred humans have cultivated for centuries.”

You swallow, fingers curling into the bedding. “That’s not an answer.”

Sukuna finally opens his eyes again, all four glinting in the dim light. He watches you, assessing. “It is the only answer that matters.” You exhale slowly, pulse steady but heavy. “Do you ever think like a human?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “No.” Your throat tightens. His answer is so blunt, so void of doubt. And yet… Something about it doesn’t feel entirely right. “Then why are you explaining yourself to me?” you ask, voice soft, almost careful. For the first time, he pauses. A slow breath leaves him, and his eyes shift, gaze flickering somewhere above you, to the ceiling, as if the answer could be written there. Then, so casually, so simply, he says:

“I can’t understand human emotions.”

You frown slightly, but he continues, voice quiet, deliberate. “I don’t feel remorse. I don’t regret.” A brief beat. And then—

“But I acknowledge what I have done.”

He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t say less. And you realize… This is the closest he has come to apologizing. You stare at him, searching, trying to make sense of it. It doesn’t erase the blood spilled. It doesn’t make up for anything. But it is something earnest, and it lingers between you both in the dark, stretching into the silence of the room. You close your eyes. The bond hums. Unbeknownst to either of you, it deepens. As you lie there, tension curling your body tight, you realize something unsettling. The King of Curses, Sukuna, has no reason to explain himself. He’s ruthless, merciless, and in his eyes, human lives mean little. Yet, here he is, acknowledging his actions in a way you’ve never expected from a being like him. It's not an apology—not really. But in some strange way, it feels like the closest thing to one he’s capable of giving. You roll the thought over in your mind, slowly, carefully. He could have dismissed your question, ignored you, or even mocked you for your naive human emotions. But instead, he explained his nature as if it were something that mattered to him—an acknowledgment, a bare minimum of recognition for what he’s done.

It’s not a redemption, far from it. It doesn’t change who he is, and it doesn’t make the blood on his hands any less damning. But it’s a shift, a slight crack in the wall that shields him. And for a moment, you wonder if that’s as much as he’s capable of. The air feels heavier now, less tense but somehow more oppressive, the weight of the night wrapping around you both like a thick blanket. You don’t realize when your breathing slows, when your body relaxes against the comfort of the bedding. The warmth from his presence is steady, and the soft murmurs of his breath become the backdrop to your thoughts. It’s strange how something so unsettling can become… calming. Ironically, sleeping next to the beast turned out to be the best sleep you’d had since your arrival at this shrine. The next morning, you wake up, groggy and confused, only to realize, haphazardly, that you’re back in your own room. The futon beneath you feels familiar, your body entwined in the soft sheets, though not as soft as the ones in Sukuna’s chambers. For a moment, you wonder if it was all just a dream—whether you had somehow imagined meeting Sukuna, conjured him up in your sleep. But then, as you shift, a scent clings to your sleeping tunic—a dark, spiced aroma. It’s unmistakable, the same one you’d inhaled when you’d been teleported to his room last night.

Oh.

—

The gardens of Sukuna’s shrine were a paradox—a place of serene beauty nestled within the cold, unyielding stone of his domain. The koi pond you had grown so fond of shimmered under the fading light, its surface rippling as the fish darted beneath. It was a place of quiet, a place where the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a moment. You had come here often since your arrival, drawn to the tranquility it offered. Tonight was no different. The air was cool against your skin, the scent of blooming flowers filling your lungs as you wandered the stone paths. Your fingers brushed against the petals of a wisteria vine, its delicate purple clusters hanging like jewels. You turned a corner, and there he was. Sukuna stood at the edge of the pond, his imposing figure silhouetted against the fading light. His upper set of arms were crossed over his chest, while the lower pair rested at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if itching to grasp something. His crimson eyes were fixed on the water, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you considered turning back, retreating to the safety of your room. But something held you in place—a curiosity, perhaps, or the faint hum of the bond that seemed to pull you toward him. He noticed you almost immediately, his gaze flicking in your direction. There was no surprise in his expression, only a faint irritation that seemed to linger beneath the surface. “Wandering again,” he said, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. More like… exasperation. You hesitated, then stepped forward, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady.

Sukuna’s lip curled slightly, a hint of a sneer forming. “It’s my shrine,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I go where I please.” You nodded, unsure of how to respond. The silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward. You glanced at the pond, watching as a koi fish broke the surface, its scales glinting in the fading light. The sight was calming, grounding. It gave you the courage to speak. “I used to live near a river,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “In my village. It wasn’t as grand as this, but… it was peaceful. I would go there sometimes, when things got too much.” Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the water, but you could feel his attention shift toward you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection between you.

“A river,” he repeated, his tone flat. “How quaint.”

You ignored the jab, focusing instead on the memory. “My mother used to take me there,” you continued, your voice growing stronger. “She wasn’t… well, she wasn’t like the other mothers in the village. She was… different.” Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward you, a faint glimmer of interest breaking through his usual indifference. “Different how?” You hesitated, your fingers tightening around each other. It wasn’t something you talked about often—not even to yourself. But something about the quiet of the garden, the way the bond seemed to hum softly between you, made it easier to speak. “She was a courtesan,” you said finally, the words heavy on your tongue. “A… a whore, as the villagers called her. She wasn’t married, and she didn’t know who my father was. So, I was… well, I was a whore’s child. That’s what they called me.” Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the shift in his energy—a subtle tension that hadn’t been there before. His gaze remained on you, sharp and assessing, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle.

“And?” he prompted, his voice low. “What of it?” You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “What of it?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief. “It… it wasn’t easy. The other children wouldn’t play with me. The adults looked at me like I was… like I was something dirty. Something to be ashamed of.” Sukuna’s lip curled again, but this time, it wasn’t a sneer. It was something darker, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “Humans,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Always so quick to judge. To ostracise. Pathetic.” You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. His words were harsh, but there was something in them—something that almost sounded like… understanding. It was fleeting, gone before you could fully grasp it, but it was there. “My mother tried to protect me,” you continued, your voice softer now. “She did her best. But… It wasn't enough. She died when I was young. After that, I was alone.” Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. “And yet you survived,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’re here. Still standing. Still breathing.”

You nodded slowly, your eyes dropping to the ground. “I survived,” you agreed. “But it wasn’t easy. I had to fight for everything. For respect. For a place in the village. For… for a life.” The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken words and emotions. You could feel the weight of Sukuna’s gaze on you, his presence pressing against you like a physical force. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection between you. “And now?” Sukuna asked finally, his voice low. “What do you fight for now?” You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was no judgment in his eyes, no pity. Only a cold, calculating curiosity. It was unsettling, but it also gave you the courage to answer. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t know what I’m fighting for anymore. My village is gone. My life… it’s not my own. I’m bound to you, and I don’t even know what that means.” Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the shift in his energy—a subtle tension that hadn’t been there before. He turned his gaze back to the pond, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “You’re bound to me,” he said, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost everything. You’re still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.” You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. His words were harsh, but there was something in them—something that almost sounded like… encouragement. It was fleeting, gone before you could fully grasp it, but it was there. “I don’t know if I can keep fighting,” you admitted, your voice soft. “Not like this. Not when everything I’ve ever known is gone.” Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then find something else to fight for,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Something worth surviving for.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Like what?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief. Sukuna’s lip curled slightly, a hint of a smirk forming. “That’s for you to decide,” he said, his voice low. “But if you’re waiting for me to give you a reason, you’ll be waiting a long time.” The words were harsh, but there was something in them—something that almost sounded like… a challenge. It was unsettling, but it also sparked something deep within you. A flicker of defiance, of determination. You nodded slowly, your eyes dropping to the ground. “I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady. Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the water, but you could feel his attention shift toward you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection between you.

“Do that,” he said finally, his voice low. “And don’t waste my time with your self-pity.”

The words were harsh, but there was something in them—something that almost sounded like… concern. It was fleeting, gone before you could fully grasp it, but it was there. You nodded again, your fingers tightening around each other. “I won’t,” you said, your voice firm. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken words and emotions. You could feel the weight of Sukuna’s gaze on you, his presence pressing against you like a physical force. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection between you. And for the first time since your arrival at the shrine, you felt something shift—something deep within you. It wasn’t peace, not exactly. But it was something. Something worth holding onto. The days in the shrine began to blur together, a quiet rhythm of wandering the gardens, reading in the library, and the occasional, awkward encounters with Sukuna. The tension between you hadn’t vanished—it still lingered, a heavy undercurrent beneath every interaction—but it had shifted. There was less hostility, less of the sharp-edged animosity that had defined your early days. Instead, there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t warmth, not exactly, but it wasn’t cold either. It was… something in between.

One evening, as you sat in your room, the thought struck you. You missed cooking. It was a strange realisation, one that caught you off guard. Back in your village, cooking had been a necessity, a way to survive. But it had also been a comfort, a small act of control in a life that often felt chaotic. Here, in the shrine, your meals were prepared for you, brought to your room on lacquered trays by silent servants. It was efficient, but it left you feeling… detached. You found yourself standing in the doorway of Sukuna’s library before you could fully think it through. He was seated at his desk, a scroll unfurled in front of him, his lower set of arms resting on the table while the upper pair were crossed over his chest. He looked up as you entered, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it?” he asked, his tone flat but not unkind. You hesitated, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your garment. “I was… wondering if I could use the kitchens,” you said finally. Sukuna’s brow furrowed, his expression one of mild confusion. “Why would you need to do that?” he asked, his tone laced with skepticism. “Your meals are prepared for you.”

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I know,” you said. “But… I used to cook. Back in my village. It’s… something I miss.” Sukuna stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a shrug, he leaned back in his chair. “It’s my shrine,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “So, of course, you can use the kitchens, woman. Do as you please.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Oh,” you said, your voice tinged with surprise. “Thank you.” He waved a hand dismissively, his attention already returning to the scroll in front of him. “Don’t waste my time with trivialities,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. You nodded again, then turned and left the room, your mind already racing with possibilities. The kitchens were vast, far grander than anything you had ever worked in before. The servants watched you with quiet curiosity as you moved through the space, gathering ingredients and tools. You settled on making bread—a simple, hearty loaf that had been a staple in your village. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was familiar, comforting. As you worked, kneading the dough with practiced hands, you became aware of a presence behind you. You turned, your heart skipping a beat as you saw Sukuna leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. You briefly noticed how the servants were no longer in the kitchen. Perhaps he had told them to command privacy when the two of you were present in a shared space? His expression was one of mild curiosity, his crimson eyes fixed on the dough in your hands.

“What are you making?” he asked, his tone laced with skepticism. “Bread,” you replied, your voice soft but steady. “It’s… something I used to make back home.” Sukuna’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flicking from the dough to your face. “Bread,” he repeated, as if the concept were foreign to him. “Why?” You hesitated, your fingers stilling in the dough. “It’s… comforting,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “It reminds me of… before.” Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on you, sharp and assessing. Then, with a shrug, he pushed off the doorway and stepped further into the kitchen.

“Do as you please,” he said, his tone indifferent. “But don’t expect me to partake in your… human fare.” You nodded, your fingers returning to the dough. The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. As you worked, you became aware of Sukuna’s presence lingering in the background, his gaze occasionally flicking toward you. It was… strange, but not entirely unwelcome. When the bread was finally done, golden and fragrant, you hesitated. Your fingers hovered over the loaf, unsure of what to do next. Then, almost without thinking, you turned to Sukuna, who was still leaning against the counter, his expression unreadable.

“Um… do you want to try it?” you asked hesitantly. Sukuna’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flicking from the bread to your face. “Why would I?” he asked, his tone laced with intrigue. You hesitated. “I just… thought you might want to,” you said finally. “I mean… you probably don’t eat things like this, do you? I’ve heard… well, I’ve heard—seen— you prefer… other things.” Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the shift in his energy—a subtle tension that hadn’t been there before. “Human flesh,” he said, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Yes, I’ve consumed it. But… things have changed since you arrived.” You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Changed?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. “The bond,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s… altered my tastes. I no longer crave what I once did.” The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken. You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. The idea that the bond could affect him in such a way was… unsettling, but also strangely comforting. It was a reminder that, despite everything, you were connected—bound together in ways neither of you fully understood. Finally, you nodded, your fingers reaching for the bread. You broke off a small piece and held it out to him, your hand trembling slightly.

“Here,” you said. “Try it.” Sukuna hesitated, his gaze flicking from the bread to your face. Then, with a shrug, he reached out and took the piece from your hand. He examined it for a moment, his expression one of mild curiosity, before popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he reached for another piece. You watched him, your heart pounding in your chest. He didn’t say anything, didn’t offer any praise or criticism, but the fact that he took another piece was enough. It was a small victory, a tiny step forward in the strange, uneasy dance that had become your relationship. As you stood there, the scent of fresh bread filling the air, you realized something. Despite everything—despite the bond, the shrine, the blood on his hands—you were beginning to enjoy his presence. And, though he would never admit it, you had a feeling he was beginning to enjoy yours too.

–

You don’t understand how it had happened, or why it happened, but the servants had randomly told you that Master Sukuna would like to have dinner with you in the large and unused… dining room, could you call it? You couldn’t recall ever seeing a table in there before, but it seemed like it had randomly appeared. When you step inside, you realize how much effort has been put into the space. The long wooden table, dark and aged, stretches beneath the golden light of the paper lanterns strung along the ceiling. Cushions have been placed on either side, meant for sitting, and at the very head of the table—Sukuna. He is already seated, elbow propped against the wood, his dual eyes scanning you lazily as you hesitate at the entrance. The scent of the meal reaches you before anything else, rich and layered—grilled fish with hints of charcoal, freshly steamed rice, something simmering in miso. An array of small dishes is spread across the table, each meticulously plated—pickled vegetables in delicate porcelain bowls, slices of tamagoyaki, bowls of miso soup steaming gently, and even a small dish of simmered daikon. It is undeniably a feast, far more elaborate than the simpler meals you’ve been having alone in your chambers.

“You’re standing there like a fool,” Sukuna remarks, though there’s no real bite to his tone. He gestures vaguely to the cushion placed a few seats down from him. “Sit.”

You do, lowering yourself onto the cushion as a servant quietly pours tea into your cup. The warmth of the cup is grounding as you stare at the food before you, realizing you haven’t eaten with another person since before your village was burned to the ground. A strange feeling prickles at the back of your mind, something close to unease but not quite. “Is this an interrogation?” you ask finally, glancing at him over the rim of your cup. Sukuna huffs out a short laugh. “If it were, you’d already know.” There’s an ease to the way he picks up his chopsticks, spearing a piece of grilled fish with practiced nonchalance. The sight of it surprises you—before, you had only seen him tear into raw meat with an almost animalistic detachment, caring little for the formality of eating. You recall, vaguely, what he had said days prior—that his tastes had changed because of the bond. That his body had begun to shift in ways he didn’t fully understand. He eats cooked food now. It unsettles you in a way you can’t describe. You reach for the rice, taking a small bite before speaking again. “You’re eating properly.”

His gaze flickers toward you before he shrugs. “It’s tolerable.”

“That’s a change from before.”

“Hn.” He doesn’t elaborate, instead reaching for the simmered daikon, plucking a piece between his chopsticks before lazily gesturing toward your untouched soup. “It’ll get cold.” You hesitate before taking a sip, the umami of the miso washing over your tongue. The warmth seeps through you, easing some of the tension in your shoulders. It’s good. Everything here is good. And for the first time in a long while, you eat without rushing, without the shadow of your grief looming so heavily over your head. Sukuna, despite his usual abrasiveness, eats with a methodical slowness, his movements lacking the usual aggression you’ve come to expect from him. Occasionally, he comments—sometimes about the food, sometimes a passing remark about the shrine’s cook. Once, when you reach for the pickled plums, he gives you a sideways glance. “You like those?”

You pause, chopsticks hovering over the dish. “I do.”

“Didn’t take you for someone who enjoys sour things.”

“Didn’t take you for someone who enjoys cooked food.”

His lips quirk slightly, though it isn’t quite a smile. “Fair.” The conversation remains sparse, neither of you attempting to fill the silence for the sake of it. But as the minutes pass, the quiet begins to feel less stifling. You eat, and he eats, and the room, for all its strangeness, feels less foreign than it did before. After a while, you set your chopsticks down, the meal sitting comfortably in your stomach. You exhale, pressing a hand against your mark instinctively, feeling the faintest hum beneath your skin. Sukuna, too, stills slightly, as if something within him reacts to your contentment. But neither of you acknowledge it. Instead, he simply leans back, exhaling through his nose. “Not bad.” You look at him. For a moment, just a moment, you think about saying thank you. But the words don’t quite form, so instead, you simply nod. The servants clear the table. The next night, the invitation comes again. The first meal had been an unusual affair, mostly spent in silence, though the weight of his presence was less suffocating than you had anticipated. Today, the food had also been exquisite—simmered beef with miso glaze, bowls of rice topped with pickled plums and seaweed, accompanied by miso soup with tofu and green onions. There were seasonal vegetables as well, prepared in ways you had never tasted before—burdock root, daikon radish steeped in broth, and delicate eggplant halves grilled to perfection. The sake had been poured into ceramic cups, unspoken yet offered.

What continues to unsettle you most, however, was how he ate. Sukuna, whose brutality and savagery had been seared into your memory, now sat across from you, a bit closer than last time, where he was seated on the cushions at the head of the table, picking apart his food with an unexpected level of restraint. The way he held his chopsticks—precise and poised—was so at odds with the image of him you carried that it left you staring before you could catch yourself. He noticed, of course. “You look surprised.” His voice was its usual deep, measured cadence, though there was an edge of something else lurking beneath it. You blinked, feeling caught. “You… eat like a noble.”

His smirk was slow, almost lazy. “Disappointed?” You didn’t know how to answer that. Instead, you glanced down at your own bowl and focused on your meal, determined to ignore the way his amusement lingered in the air between you. The next invitation came two nights later. This time, you found yourself more aware of the ritual of it all—the quiet clink of dishes, the warm glow of candlelight, the faint aroma of cedar and incense hanging in the air. The meal was different yet just as rich—grilled fish with shoyu glaze, stewed vegetables, miso soup infused with fragrant yuzu peel. Again, he ate in silence at first, though his presence, as daunting as it was, no longer felt entirely suffocating. It was only after the first few bites that he finally spoke.

“You didn’t eat all of your rice last time.” You blinked at him, unsure of why he had noticed such a detail. “…I wasn’t that hungry.”

He hummed, idly picking at a piece of fish with his chopsticks. “Hm. Wasteful.” You bristled slightly, even as you took another bite. “Not all of us eat enough to feed an entire village.”

He let out something between a chuckle and a scoff. “You say that as if you didn’t just devour that piece of eggplant.” Heat crawled up your neck, but you stubbornly kept eating.

“It was good.”

He lifted a brow, studying you with an unreadable expression before he returned his attention to his meal. “Hmph.” The conversation that night was less tense than the first, though not entirely comfortable. You spoke in brief exchanges, nothing significant, nothing particularly meaningful, but it was… something. And then, it simply became routine. The invitations continued, and with each meal, something between you and Sukuna shifted—subtle, unspoken, but undeniable. The meals themselves changed with the seasons—rich broths for the colder nights, light and refreshing dishes for the warmer evenings. The air between you, though still lined with tension, became something you could withstand, something you could exist in without feeling entirely suffocated. You still didn’t know what it all meant, nor did you particularly want to dwell on it. But as you sat across from him, the candlelight casting sharp shadows over his striking features, you couldn’t ignore the strange sense of equilibrium settling between you. And neither, it seemed, could he.

—

The shrine was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. You were in your room, seated by the open shoji doors that led to the balcony, watching the moonlight spill over the gardens below. The bond between you and Sukuna had been… different lately. Less strained, less hostile. The dinners together, with the occasional quiet exchanging of books in his library, maybe they attested to the familiarity you felt each time the bond ignited a warm, fluttery feeling within you. There was still tension, of course—there always would be—but it had shifted into something softer, something almost… comfortable. You weren’t sure how to feel about it. The knock at your door startled you. It was late, far too late for any of the servants to be bothering you. You stood, smoothing the fabric of your kimono, and opened the door to find Uraume standing there, their pale face illuminated by the flickering light of the lantern they held. Their expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in their posture that made your stomach twist.

“He needs you,” they said, their voice low and urgent. You blinked, your heart skipping a beat. “Sukuna? What happened?” Uraume’s gaze didn’t waver. “He’s been injured. A curse user attacked him. He’s… not healing as quickly as he should.” Your breath caught in your throat. Sukuna? Injured? The idea was almost laughable. He was the King of Curses, a being of unparalleled strength and resilience. He’d torn through armies, devoured curses, and walked away unscathed. The thought of him being vulnerable, of him needing help, was… unsettling. “What kind of curse user could hurt him?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. Uraume’s expression darkened. “This one was… different. Their technique was unlike anything we’ve encountered before. They wielded a cursed energy that disrupted Sukuna’s natural regeneration. It’s not permanent—he’ll likely be immune to it next time—but for now, he’s weakened.” You nodded, though your mind was racing. Without another word, you followed Uraume through the winding corridors of the shrine, your footsteps echoing in the silence. The bond between you and Sukuna hummed faintly, a quiet, insistent pull that grew stronger with every step. By the time you reached his chambers, your heart was pounding in your chest. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of blood and incense. Sukuna was seated on the edge of his futon, his upper set of arms braced against his knees, his lower pair hanging limply at his sides. His chest was bare, revealing a deep, jagged wound that ran from his shoulder to his ribs. The sight of it made your stomach churn. He looked up as you entered, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “What are you doing here?” he growled, his voice rough but lacking its usual bite.

“Uraume said you were hurt,” you replied. “I… I came to help.” Sukuna scoffed, though the sound was weaker than usual. “Help? What can you do, human?” You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, you didn’t know. But the bond between you was humming louder now, a steady, insistent pull that you couldn’t ignore. Without thinking, you stepped forward, your fingers brushing against his arm. The moment your skin touched his, something shifted. The bond flared to life, a warm, golden light spreading from the point of contact. Sukuna’s eyes widened, his body tensing as the wound on his chest began to knit itself together, the jagged edges smoothing out as if time itself were being reversed. You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. “What… what’s happening?” Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the wound, his expression one of mild disbelief. Then, slowly, he turned to look at you, his crimson eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re healing me,” he said, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. You shook your head, your fingers still pressed against his arm. “I… I don’t know how. I didn’t do anything.” Uraume, who had been standing silently in the doorway, stepped forward, their expression one of quiet astonishment. “It’s the bond,” they said, their voice soft but steady. “I’ve read about this before, though I thought it was a myth. Soulmates… their connection can amplify each other’s abilities. In this case, it seems your presence is accelerating his healing.”

You blinked, your mind struggling to process the information. “But… why now? Why hasn’t this happened before?” Uraume’s gaze flicked to Sukuna, then back to you. “The bond has been deepening,” they said simply. “It’s likely that his injury, combined with your proximity, triggered this… reaction.” Sukuna’s lip curled slightly, though there was no real malice in the expression. “Of course,” he muttered, his tone laced with irritation. You didn’t respond. Your fingers were still pressed against his arm, the bond humming faintly between you. The wound on his chest was almost completely healed now, the skin smooth and unbroken. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled beneath your touch. It was… intimate, in a way you hadn’t expected. Uraume cleared their throat, drawing your attention. “I’ll leave you to it,” they said, their tone neutral. “Call if you need anything.” You nodded, though your mind was still reeling. As Uraume left the room, the silence stretched between you and Sukuna, heavy and unspoken. His gaze was fixed on you, his crimson eyes sharp and assessing. You could feel the weight of his presence, the way it pressed against you like a physical force. “You can let go now,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. You blinked, your fingers twitching against his arm. “Oh. Right.” You pulled your hand away, though the bond between you continued to hum faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection you shared. Sukuna exhaled sharply, his upper set of arms uncrossing as he leaned back slightly. “This is… inconvenient,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. You hesitated, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your robes. “Are you… okay?” you asked, assessing his large form.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to you, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “This is nothing.” You nodded, though you weren’t entirely convinced. The bond between you was still humming faintly, a quiet, insistent pull that you couldn’t ignore. You could feel his energy, the way it pulsed beneath the surface of his skin. It was… strange, but not entirely unwelcome. The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You shifted slightly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I should… go,” you said finally. Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on you, sharp and assessing. Then, with a shrug, he leaned back against the futon, his upper set of arms crossing over his chest. “Do as you please,” he said, his tone indifferent. You nodded again, though you didn’t move. The bond between you was still humming faintly, a quiet, insistent pull that you couldn’t ignore. You could feel his energy, the way it pulsed beneath the surface of his skin. It was… strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You finally turned and walked out of the room, your thoughts swirling. The bond between you and Sukuna had grown stronger, leaving you uncertain of how to feel. It was unsettling, yet strangely comforting. You were no longer alone in this—whether you wanted it or not.

–

A few days had passed since the mark between you and Sukuna flared up and healed the jagged wound he had acquired as a result of , and though the bond had only grown more undeniable, you hadn’t seen him since. He had kept to his usual routinely dinners and library sessions, coupled with his intimidating presence, and though you tried to push your thoughts of him aside, the connection between you still lingered. It was late one evening when he finally appeared in the doorway of your room. He stood there, as composed as ever, his gaze unreadable as always. But there was something different about him—something subtle. In his hand, he held a small, delicate object wrapped in dark cloth, its edges slightly frayed from travel. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped into the room and placed it down on the table between you. “Take it,” he said flatly, as though the whole thing was beneath him, but there was a slight hesitation in his posture, something that hinted at… uncertainty? You eyed the object curiously and carefully unwrapped it. A small, intricately carved hairpin caught the light—a simple yet elegant piece made from polished ivory, decorated with a delicate cherry blossom motif, its petals painted a soft pink. The craftsmanship was beautiful, and the intricate detail made it clear it wasn’t something easily found in the markets. It was clear he’d brought it with great thought.

“Is this… for me?” you asked, your voice a mix of surprise and curiosity. Sukuna gave you a sideways glance, his tone nonchalant. “It’s a hairpin. Nothing special.” He turned away, his back to you now, but you could feel his presence still lingering. You held the pin in your hands, feeling the cool smoothness of the ivory beneath your fingers. “It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you said softly, your gaze lingering on the gift. He paused, his back still turned. “Don’t mention it,” he replied, almost too casually. “It’s just something I thought you might like.” But there was something in the way he spoke—something almost… kind. You hesitated for a moment before standing up, walking toward him. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to care that you were near, but as you gently placed the hairpin on his palm, you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you murmured, your voice tender. “But I appreciate it.” Sukuna’s eyes flickered toward your hand, then back to your face. There was no teasing, no mocking—just the barest flicker of something softer, like a fleeting moment of vulnerability that he quickly masked with indifference. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as sharp as usual. “I don’t do this for just anyone.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, but also something else in his presence—something more than just the usual fear and tension. The following days were marked by small, unexpected moments. Another gift arrived a week later—a hand-carved fan with delicate plum blossoms painted on the silk, an elegant thing that would have been far too extravagant for anyone else. Sukuna dropped it onto your desk with the same nonchalant air, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment before he turned away, just a fraction longer than usual.

“Take care of it,” he muttered. “You humans are clumsy as shit”.

“I will,” you answered, running your fingers over the smooth surface of the fan. “Thank you.” From then on, small offerings became a part of your days. A piece of hand-forged jewelry, a box of rare incense, a fine brush for calligraphy. Each item, though simple, seemed to carry a depth of meaning you hadn’t expected. Sukuna didn’t speak of them much, never explaining his actions, but his gestures were slowly becoming harder to ignore. It wasn’t the gifts themselves, but the fact that he—someone so distant, so removed—was doing this for you. There was an intimacy in it, a vulnerability that you didn’t expect from someone like him. It wasn’t grand or overt, but in the quiet moments when he handed you another token, something in his gaze shifted ever so slightly. You were starting to understand the kind of bond this was becoming. And though he never admitted it aloud, his actions spoke louder than words—Sukuna was beginning to care.

—

A few days had passed since the last time you’d seen Sukuna, and tonight, there was an unfamiliar shift in the usual atmosphere between the two of you. The tension in the air was still present, but it wasn’t the same sharp, defensive energy. It was quieter. It almost felt… comfortable. As you sat down at the table, Sukuna arrived, a small bag in his hand. You eyed it curiously, but said nothing as he placed it down in front of you. Without a word, he unwrapped it slowly, revealing a loaf of bread. It wasn’t just any bread—it was a loaf of melon pan, the sweet Japanese bread with its signature sugar crust, golden and slightly cracked, the bread soft and pillowy beneath it. (a/n; I know melonpan didn’t exist in the heian era but pls spare me)

You stared at it for a moment, unsure if it was real, but Sukuna wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were focused elsewhere, as if the bread in front of you didn’t matter all that much. But there was a tension to his posture, an awkwardness you’d never seen before. “Do you like it?” he asked, his voice low and almost cautious. “I wasn’t sure what to get you. But I remembered that night in the kitchen when you said you like bread.” You blinked, surprised. You hadn’t realized he’d been paying that much attention. “You remembered that?” you asked, your voice softer than usual. “Not hard to remember,” he muttered, still not meeting your gaze. “You kept going on about it like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.” You chuckled lightly, unsure whether to feel embarrassed or touched. You’d mentioned it in passing, hardly thinking it would make an impact. “I wasn’t going on about it,” you said, picking up the loaf. “I just—well, I do like bread. And I really also like sweets. A lot.” You took a tentative bite of the bread, the sweet, buttery flavor melting in your mouth, and you couldn’t help but smile. “This is actually really good. I’ve never had melon pan before.”

Sukuna seemed to stiffen, watching you for a long moment, his gaze still unreadable. “I didn’t know if you’d like it or not,” he said quietly. “But I thought it might be a safe bet.” You continued eating, savoring the soft, sweet taste of the bread, and for a moment, the room fell into a rare quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It felt… natural. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze for the first time since he’d placed the bread on the table. There was something in his eyes—maybe it was reluctance, or maybe something else—but it wasn’t the usual mockery or cold indifference. “It’s really thoughtful of you,” you said after a beat, your voice sincere. “I don’t think anyone’s ever paid attention to that before.” Sukuna looked away quickly, his expression closing off again. “It’s just bread. Don’t make it into something it’s not.” You nodded, sensing he wasn’t entirely comfortable with this exchange. But still, there was a warmth behind the gesture. “I know,” you said, your voice gentle. “But still, thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he replied gruffly, though the edge in his voice was less biting than usual. “I just… remembered. Thought you might like it. That’s all.” There was something about the simplicity of it—the quiet, almost tender moment—that made it feel like more than just bread. It was an offering, in his own way, a way for him to show that he’d thought about you. Even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud, it was clear that he cared more than he let on. The conversation drifted into comfortable silence as you finished the loaf, savoring each bite. Sukuna remained mostly quiet, though he didn’t leave. His presence, usually imposing, seemed less heavy tonight, more grounded. “Don’t expect anything else,” he muttered after a while, but there was no harshness in his voice, no mocking edge. “I’m not in the habit of doing this.”

“I won’t,” you replied, the smallest smile tugging at your lips. “But I’m glad you did.” He gave a slight nod, his gaze flickering to you before looking away again, his usual stoic demeanor slowly returning. But for the first time in a while, there was a sense of quiet intimacy between the two of you—no teasing, no barriers, just the subtle understanding that this, in its own way, was something more. The melon pan incident, as you had come to think of it, lingered in your mind longer than you’d expected. There was something unexpected in Sukuna’s quiet thoughtfulness, something you couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t just the bread—it was the way he had remembered something so small and insignificant. And then, as if to prove that it wasn’t a fluke, the following evening, there was another small gesture waiting for you. This time, it was a small tray of delicate Japanese daifuku—soft, chewy rice cakes stuffed with sweet red bean paste (a/n: i doubt these existed in the heian era either bro sorry). You hadn’t even said anything about them before, but when you looked up from the table, there it was, sitting between you and Sukuna. He placed it down with the same air of indifference, but there was a subtle tension in the way he watched you, like he was waiting for something. “You like these, too,” he said, not making eye contact. You blinked, surprised again. “How did you know?”

He shrugged, eyes cold. “You should see the way your face makes this odd face everytime you take a bite out of this… delicacy” You smiled, feeling the warmth of the gesture, and helped yourself to another piece of the daifuku. “This is amazing,” you said, looking at him. “Thank you.” Sukuna glanced at you, his face impassive, but there was a slight shift in his gaze. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t start getting sentimental on me, woman.” That night, as you finished the last of the daifuku, you found yourself oddly comfortable in the quiet. This—whatever this was between you—wasn’t the sharp, tense and uncomfortable back-and-forth that used to dominate your conversations. There was something easier about it, something less strained. It was as if the awkwardness had slowly begun to dissipate, and though neither of you had openly acknowledged it, the small moments of care were starting to feel more natural. Each evening, it became a little ritual. One night, there were delicate kashiwa mochi wrapped in oak leaves, another night, small matcha-flavored pastries. Every time, Sukuna’s voice was a little less sharp, a little less gruff. Sometimes, he’d even engage in actual conversation—about trivial things at first, like the taste of the matcha or the weather, but soon it evolved into more. Subtle, important things.

“What was your childhood like? Did you have one, or were you born a curse?” you asked one night, breaking the quiet. It wasn’t a question you ever thought you’d ask Sukuna, but something about the evening, the slow rhythm of the conversation, made it feel like a natural thing to say. Sukuna didn’t flinch at your question, but the brief shift in his gaze told you he wasn’t expecting it. He didn’t respond immediately, taking his time to set down his cup before glancing at you with that usual, nonchalant air that had become so familiar. “Yeah, you could say I had the tendencies of a human once,” he said, as though it were a minor detail. “But I was unwanted. Doesn’t matter much now.” His voice didn’t carry the weight of pain or nostalgia—just bluntness, a dismissive edge that almost made it sound like the whole subject bored him. You blinked, surprised at the casual tone in his voice. “Unwanted?” you echoed, unsure what he meant.

“Didn’t fit the mold,” he muttered. “Not good enough for the world I was born into. My power was too much, too early, and they couldn’t control me. On top of that I was born… Well. Visible deformities, as humans would put it. So I was discarded. That’s how it works for people like me.” There was no bitterness in his tone, just a matter-of-factness, as though he was recounting something trivial. You leaned forward, intrigued despite his indifferent stance. “So, how did you… become like this?”

Sukuna’s lips curled up into a small, humorless smirk. “The same way anything like me happens. The jujutsu world is full of people who think they can control power, manipulate it, bend it to their will. But sometimes, power doesn’t stay in the box they want to put it in. You either control it, or it controls you. And me? I didn’t let anyone control me.” His voice didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness to it that you hadn’t expected. Sukuna wasn’t someone who spoke about his past often, let alone with any kind of sentiment. He was always the feared sorcerer—the one who brought destruction—but this… this was different. For a moment, he didn’t seem like the invincible, untouchable figure everyone feared. He seemed like a product of a world that had cast him aside, and his voice betrayed just a hint of something that was more than arrogance or cruelty.

“So, you just… became like this?” you asked, still trying to piece together what he meant, unsure of whether he was talking about his rise to power or something else entirely. Sukuna gave a short, dismissive shrug. “It’s not like that. I wasn’t made this way by choice. Power like mine doesn’t belong quietly in anyone. Eventually, it changes how people look at you. How you look at yourself. You either let them define you, or you define yourself. And I did.” His gaze darkened for a moment, a flicker of something hidden behind his usually aloof demeanor. “And in this world? If you’re not feared, you’re nothing.” The words hung heavy in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying. The vulnerability buried beneath the harsh, bitter exterior. For the first time, Sukuna wasn’t the untouchable king of curses—you could see the cracks in his mask, the faintest glimpse of a person who had been abandoned, who had been forced to adapt to a world that only wanted to use him. You felt the desire to ask more, to understand him better, but you also knew pushing too far would only make him retreat further into himself. So, instead, you simply nodded, taking in his words. “That sounds… rough,” you said quietly, your voice soft. Sukuna’s gaze softened just a fraction, a barely perceptible shift. But he quickly turned his attention away, hiding the brief crack in his demeanor behind his usual smirk. “It is what it is,” he muttered, as if to brush off the conversation. Your smile grew, and for the first time, you felt something shift in the room. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t anything to speak of, but it felt like a breakthrough—however small. A moment where he let down just a little of the wall he’d spent so much time building.

That night, after finishing another small dessert—this time a bowl of mizu yokan—he lingered longer than usual, sitting quietly, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across his face. “Alright, that’s enough with the questions,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “But I’ll say this: don’t go wasting time feeling pity for me, woman. I’m content as I am.”

“I never said I was,” you replied, offering him a small, pout. Well, maybe you were a little touched by his little walk down memory lane. Sukuna’s lips twitched, a rare, almost imperceptible smile ghosting across his face before it was gone. “Yeah, well… You’re a really bad fuckin’ liar.” You didn’t press him further, huffing at his quip. Instead, you simply reached for another sweet treat. “I guess I’ll just enjoy the desserts then.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he shot back, but this time, the edge of his voice was softer, warmer, less biting. As the days passed, it became routine. Dessert after dessert, each one a little more thoughtful than the last, each conversation a little more open, a little less guarded. Sukuna’s snark was still there, of course, always ready to rise to the surface. But behind it, there was a quiet understanding beginning to form. Neither of you acknowledged it outright, but the subtle warmth that had started to develop between you—the kind that wasn’t just from the desserts, but from the time spent together—began to feel undeniable. The bond between you, unspoken and yet so palpable, was shifting things between the two of you. And while neither of you could put a name to it, it was becoming something neither of you could ignore. The subtle way Sukuna softened when you laughed, the rare moments when his sharp words were followed by a quieter, more genuine response—it was clear that whatever this was, it was changing you both, one sweet gesture at a time.

–

Sukuna had been gone for three days. He didn’t tell you where he was going, not exactly. Just muttered something about “sorcerer scum in the north” and vanished before you could ask further. You didn’t know when he’d be back, or what kind of shape he’d return in—but strangely, you cared. Not just because his absence had disrupted your strange new rhythm of shared silence and desserts, but because… it felt empty without him. You’d never admit it aloud. Not even to yourself in clearer terms. But the lack of his presence left the shrine quieter. Colder. And so, in a rare burst of curiosity—or perhaps boredom—you wandered. The shrine was massive, stretching well beyond the main quarters and ceremonial halls you’d grown accustomed to. You drifted past familiar corridors into one you hadn’t noticed before—one darker, older, but clearly still tended to. You expected to find storage rooms. Maybe empty quarters. What you didn’t expect was to push open a delicate, lacquered door and step into another world entirely. The room was filled with light. Pale silks hung from the ceilings like drifting clouds, the scent of rare incense curling softly in the air. Ornate screens divided lounging areas, where cushions of every texture and color lay untouched. And there—moving gracefully among the furnishings—were women. Several of them. All breathtaking. They weren’t speaking. Just moving quietly, their presence somehow both ethereal and heavy. Their clothing was elegant, hair brushed smooth and glossy, faces serene.

They didn’t notice you. Or maybe they did and simply didn’t care. You stood frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to step forward or back out entirely. But a faint shift of one of the women’s heads—just enough to glance at you with a vaguely curious expression—pushed you to move again. You left before you could say a word.

—

The kitchen was warm. Familiar. It grounded you, especially now, as the strange image of that room still lingered in your mind. You found yourself poking around for something—anything—to make, hands moving on autopilot. And then came Uraume. They stepped into the kitchen as they always did, quiet and gliding, like they’d been summoned by the stillness. Their eyes passed over you like they were checking for something, as usual. You didn’t say anything at first. But it tugged at you.

“Hey,” you said finally, stirring a pot that didn’t need stirring.

A pause. “Yes?”

You kept your gaze down. “Those women… in the southern wing.” Another pause. “What women?” You looked up then. “The ones in that big hall, past the tapestry with the dragon motif.” Uraume was still. They blinked once, slow. “Ah. The concubine quarters.” It was said plainly. No hesitation. No discomfort. You blinked. “Concubines.”

They nodded, moving toward the storage shelves. “Yes. Sukuna-sama’s, from before.”

You stared. “Before what?” They tilted their head slightly, as if the question was strange. “Before he stopped entertaining the idea of them.”

“…So they’re still here?”

“They serve the shrine now. Maintain parts of it. They’re loyal.” They said it like it was obvious. “They’ve remained since he conquered this region. Some… longer.” You didn’t know why it sat strangely in your stomach. It wasn’t a new idea, not really. Of course someone like Sukuna would have had concubines. Dozens, probably. Hundreds. He was worshipped like a god. Revered, feared. Power like that drew people like moths. And yet… you turned back to your pot, brow furrowed.

“You seem bothered,” Uraume said flatly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You frowned. “Why would I care if he had concubines?”

Uraume gave the smallest shrug. “You tell me.”

There was no mockery in their voice. Just the same blank politeness they always used. You didn’t answer. But that night, in your room, wrapped in plain sheets and half-watching the flicker of the oil lamp, your thoughts drifted to the quiet grace of those women. The elegance, the way they’d moved like they belonged in a place Sukuna had once given them. You wondered what kind of man he’d been with them. Cruel? Detached? Charming, even? And you hated that you wondered. Because whatever it was that was forming between the two of you now—tentative, strange, steady—it was yours. Singular. Built one cautious conversation, one dessert, one half-smile at a time. But still. The image lingered. And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything, even as something unspoken twisted quietly in your chest. Dinner that night was different. The kitchen had been filled with the scent of seared meat for the past hour—savory and sharp, a heavy warmth that clung to the air like steam after rain. When the meal was finally placed between the two of you, the lacquered tray held perfectly grilled cuts of wagyu beef, marbled fat rendered to the point of melting. They glistened with a thin lacquer of sesame oil and tare glaze, smoky sweet and just slightly charred on the edges. A side of pickled daikon and wild mountain greens sat untouched as the silence stretched on. You were unusually quiet. Sukuna chewed slowly, watching you with the lazy attention of a predator that’s already eaten but still enjoys the scent of blood. After a few moments, he grunted. “You’re quiet today,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You usually annoy me a little more than this.” You blinked, forcing out a small laugh, not really feeling it. “Sorry to disappoint.” He gave you a long look, one brow raised. For a moment, you thought he’d leave it alone. But then, casually, like swatting a fly, he said, “Let me guess. You wandered where you shouldn’t have.”

You paused, chopsticks hovering above the beef. “…I didn’t know you had concubines.” The corner of his mouth lifted. Not in surprise—he’d known this would come up eventually. His grin was slow and unapologetic, almost boyish if not for the glint of something sharper behind it. “What, just ‘cause I look like this—” he rolled his broad shoulders, letting his robe shift with calculated ease, revealing the ripple of muscle beneath and the unmistakable twitch of his four arms beneath the sleeves. His lower pair flexed beneath the fabric like it was second nature. Then one lifted and casually parted the dip in his robe, pointing to the maw on his stomach. “—you think I don’t have sexual needs?”

Your entire body recoiled in visible disgust. “Ew—! Don’t say it like that, oh my god.”

Sukuna snorted. “What? You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that visual,” you snapped, flustered, face heating fast. “Gods, you’re disgusting.”

He chuckled, low and mean, lips parting just enough to flash the glint of a fang. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Your heart jumped. “I am not—!”

But then it hit. A sharp, unmistakable flare on your skin—your soulmate mark, a searing heat blooming against your ribs. Your breath caught. Across from you, Sukuna froze for only a split second, his grin curving wider with dark delight as his own mark lit up in answer. “Well,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, all four eyes trained on you. “That didn’t sting a little for no reason, did it?” You scowled, dragging your hand across your ribs, as if to hide the mark you knew he couldn’t see from this angle. “It’s not what you think.”

His grin sharpened. “You sure?”

“Maybe the bond’s just defective,” you muttered, flushing. “Nothing else explains why I’d be tethered to someone who talks about his sex life over dinner.” Sukuna barked out a laugh, actually amused now. “You're the one who brought up the concubines, brat. I was just answering your question.”

“Poorly!”

“You say that, but you’re the one blushing like a handmaiden.”

You gaped at him. “I am not! I’m just—hot from the food.” He leaned back, arms spreading like a smug deity lounging in the aftermath of a battle. “Sure you are. Should I open a window for you? Or are you gonna sit there steaming for another ten minutes?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I know. Yet here you are. Eating dinner with me like you have a choice.” The banter kept going, quick and barbed and strangely easy, like the rhythm of a sparring match neither of you intended to win. And somewhere between your second helping and his offhand insults, you realized something quietly terrifying:

He was joking with you. Not in the cruel, sharp way he used to. Not as a power play. But real joking. The kind laced with just enough truth to make you squirm, softened by something that felt suspiciously close to amusement. The mask he always wore—of bored superiority and distant menace—was slipping in tiny pieces. Sukuna was still sprawled on his side of the room, a cup of sake now in hand, the folds of his dark silk robe parted slightly from how carelessly he’d settled. The fabric clung loose around his waist, pooling around his legs, but tight across his shoulders—broad, muscled, the lines of his body impossible to ignore.

You hated that you were staring.

But how could you not?

He was massive. Not just tall, but built, the kind of strong that wasn’t sculpted by discipline but born from chaos. His four arms only added to the overwhelming size of him—two folded behind his head in a display of easy arrogance, the other two cradling the sake and resting against his thigh. And the tattoos—black, inked like ropes and waves and ancient rites—curved along his chest and arms in harsh, precise lines, each one seeming to pulse when the firelight hit them. He looked like a walking shrine to something dangerous and unholy. “You're starin',” he said, low and rough, the edge of a smirk in his voice. You blinked fast. “No, I wasn’t.” Sukuna shifted slightly, the way a large predator might stretch just to remind you of its size. “Sure you weren’t.”

You scowled and tore your gaze away, pretending to adjust the tray between you both. A grunt. “You always get this twitchy when something’s on your mind.” You stiffened. He noticed. And then, like he could smell the thoughts dancing at the tip of your tongue, he grinned—slow, amused, a little too satisfied with himself.

“What is it?” he drawled. “Something about me distracting you? Got more of those pesky questions?”

You hesitated, heat rising uninvited to your cheeks. His grin widened. You hated him. Not really. You cleared your throat, not meeting his gaze. “I just… was wondering something.” Another grunt. “Go on then.”

You regretted it immediately. “Since you’re, um. Built like that. How do you even—”

Sukuna raised a brow. “How do I even what?” You inhaled sharply, your entire soul shriveling. “…Have sex.”

For one second, there was silence. And then Sukuna barked out a laugh—a full, body-shaking laugh, low and wicked, as his top hands dropped behind him for support and his lower ones set down his cup. Your face was on fire.

“You’ve been thinking about what my dick looks like?” he said, positively leering at you now, all sharp teeth and gleaming eyes.

“I—No! That’s not what I—shut up!” You turned away so fast your hair caught on your collar. “It’s a logical question!”

He was still grinning like a wolf. “Sure it is. Must’ve really been looking, huh? Taking in all the details.”

“I hate you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You're awfully curious for someone so offended.” You made the mistake of glancing back at him—and regretted it. His robe had slipped further down one shoulder, baring more inked skin, the thick curve of his bicep beneath. His claws glinted faintly in the firelight. His lower arms remained still, resting along his thighs like they had no business being that large.

“I was just thinking—mechanically, it must be hard, that’s all!”

He laughed again. “So clinical. You want a diagram next time?”

“Maybe I will draw one!”

He leaned in a fraction. “You'd be surprised to know I have two.”

You choked.

“What—”

Sukuna just smirked and raised his cup again, taking a slow, unbothered sip of sake like he hadn’t just destroyed the last functioning part of your brain. “You’re lying,” you said, eyes wide, voice cracking. He didn't answer. Just tilted his chin toward you and murmured, “Oh? You sound a little eager.” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing except heat, flushing up your neck and into your ears. You turned away again, practically sizzling. And then it hit you. Again. Traitorous fucking mark. That now-familiar burn—sharp and sudden, right under your ribs where your soulmate mark lived. It didn’t hurt, not exactly. But it tingled, warm and electric just like before, enough to draw your breath in through your teeth with a little more panic this time. Sukuna inhaled too, eyes narrowing slightly. He set the sake aside.

“…That didn’t feel like nothing,” he said, voice dipping just enough to make your spine tingle. You curled slightly in place, clutching your robes tighter. “It’s malfunctioning. Seriously. Second time it's done this. Maybe we should ask Uruame for more information–”

He gave a quiet, predatory chuckle, leaning in slowly, eyes half-lidded now. “You react that strongly every time someone tells you they have two dicks?”

“Stop saying it!”

He grinned again, all canines and danger, but it wasn’t cruel now. It was teasing. Touched with something warmer, something… curious.

“You wanna see or something?”

You gasped. “No!”

Sukuna looked unbothered. “It’d answer your mechanical concerns.”

Your mark flared again.

His did too. And for a moment, both of you sat there in the stillness, the fire crackling between you, the bond humming like a pulled string. You clutched your knees, glaring at the floor, and Sukuna just watched you—grin easing into something less cutting, more thoughtful. Almost fond.

Almost.

“…Do not speak,” you muttered. He didn’t. Just took another drink, eyes on you the whole time, as if watching the bond itself smolder beneath your skin. And for once, you didn’t run from it.

–

The days that followed passed with a new, unspoken rhythm. You found yourself in the kitchen more often, drawn there not out of duty but something else—restlessness, maybe. Or habit. Or perhaps the strange, simmering calm that had started to settle in your chest whenever Sukuna wasn’t storming the halls or barking orders. You didn't always cook; sometimes you simply sat by the coals and watched the steam rise from clay pots, fingers trailing idly through the condensation on the lacquered counters. Sometimes, when Sukuna returned from his travels—bloodied or bone-weary, the heavy scent of the outside clinging to his robes—he would step into the kitchen without a word. You’d glance up, startled, only for him to give you a flat look and then wordlessly pluck a small plate from the tray beside you. He’d take a bite. Chew. And then:

“This is disgusting.”

You’d scowl, snatch the plate from his hand—and he’d pluck another bite before you could move it out of reach. Always with that same neutral face, as if his own reaction annoyed him. Sometimes he ate in silence. Sometimes he insulted the seasoning. But every time, he kept eating. And the next time you cooked, you made extra. He never asked you to join him in his private quarters again after the teleportation incident—but the library became the new middle ground. One of his attendants, pale-faced and jittery, would shuffle into the kitchen or your quarters, head bowed low.

“Sukuna-sama requests your presence.”

The first time, you didn’t know what to expect. But when you arrived, he simply waved a hand toward a lacquered cushion and returned to the scroll he was reading. You sat across from him, unsure, your knees tucked neatly beneath you, eyes flicking over the endless shelves of bound manuscripts and jade-carved seals. And so it became routine. No words were needed. You read. He read. Sometimes you fell asleep in the corner, waking hours later to find a soft throw draped over your shoulders and Sukuna still cross-legged beside the brazier, eyes lowered, lips barely moving as he mouthed the words on an aged scroll.

And the gifts—

They started subtle. A new hairpin placed near your basin. A comb carved from cherry wood, the lacquer catching the light like a drop of garnet. You never saw who left them, but you didn’t need to.

Then, one evening, you slid open the long wooden closet that lined one side of your room—and stopped short. Silks. Dozens of them. Folded with impossible precision, stacked one atop another in a perfect gradient of color and detail. From simple kosode dyed with indigo and inkbrush plum blossoms to intricate junihitoe, layered with brocade patterns of cranes, chrysanthemums, and cresting waves. Obi belts in soft gold and crimson were coiled like sleeping serpents beside them, and a pair of zōri—simple sandals of silk and lacquered wood—rested on the tatami at the bottom.

You stared. Touched one—just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination. The fabric whispered beneath your fingers. You said nothing about it. Not that night, not the next morning. But when you descended for dinner, dressed in one of the simpler garments—a dusky lavender kosode with a cloud-dappled sash—you caught the way Sukuna looked up. And stopped. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked. Eyes dragging slowly over the lines of the garment, the way it fell over your frame, the sleeves trailing delicately at your wrists. His gaze wasn’t hungry, not like you feared. It was something stranger.

Pleased.

He let his eyes linger for a beat longer, then turned his attention to his cup, muttering something about your sleeves being too long for eating properly. You rolled your eyes—but you wore another the next night. A soft blue one, patterned with falling wisteria. And again, his gaze found you and stayed a moment too long. He never commented directly. Never told you he liked seeing you in the clothes he’d chosen. But he sent more. With each passing week, the collection in your closet grew—seasonal silks, embroidered linings, even warm padded kosode for the colder nights. You never thanked him out loud. He never asked you to. But in that growing silence—filled with slow glances, quiet shared spaces, warm sake and glimmering sleeves—something was softening.

Not just in you.

In him.

Even if he would die before admitting it.

–

You weren’t used to needing help. The layered silk hung open over your shoulders, the inner robe already clinging lightly to your skin after your bath. The occasion—a seasonal shrine offering—was something you hadn’t asked to attend, but Sukuna had simply told Uraume, and Uraume had simply informed you. Refusing hadn’t felt like an option. The robe he had sent for the ritual was finer than anything he’d gifted before. Deep black, like wet ink under moonlight, lined with subtle patterns of pale camellias along the hem and sleeve. A wide crimson obi sat folded on the tatami, stiff and elegant, almost ceremonial. You were halfway through awkwardly wrapping it around your waist when you heard the door slide open.

You turned your head sharply. “Uraume, I told you I don’t—”

But it wasn’t Uraume. It was Sukuna. He filled the doorway like a shadow, his robes loose, hair unbound, his expression unreadable as he looked you over from head to toe. He didn’t speak. Just stepped inside and slid the door shut behind him. Your hands paused on the obi.

“…What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said finally, voice rough and casual. “You’ll look like a crumpled scroll.”

You scowled. “I can manage.”

“No,” he said simply, already moving toward you. “You can’t.” You tensed as he stepped behind you—close, too close—his broad presence almost suffocating. His lower arms moved first, brushing your hands away with a firm but wordless ease, fingers brushing your waist. You stiffened. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“Shut up and hold still.” You huffed but obeyed, fists tightening slightly as he took the crimson sash and began to move. His hands were slow, confident—like he’d done this a hundred times, maybe for a hundred other women. But it didn’t feel mechanical. It felt deliberate. Every shift of fabric around your waist, every pull of the knot, felt heavier than it should. His knuckles grazed your hips, the calloused pads of his fingers tugging and smoothing, warm through the thin fabric. Your throat felt dry. The silence wrapped tighter than the obi. And then his top right hand—larger, warmer—rose without warning, brushing against your collarbone where the inner layer had slipped. He tugged it gently into place, fingers lingering a second too long against your neck. You felt his breath at the nape of your neck, slow and steady.

You shivered.

“…You’re touchy tonight,” you murmured, trying for casual, but your voice came out thin, breathier than you meant. Sukuna hummed, low in his throat. “You're dressed like a priestess about to walk into a war camp. You should at least look the part.”

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, but your voice faltered as his hands pressed briefly against your lower back, adjusting the final tie. “You’re squirming,” he said. “That mean you’re nervous?”

“I’m not squirming.”

“You’re blushing, too.”

You jerked away slightly, just enough to turn and look up at him. “You’re imagining things.” His face was close—too close now. His top pair of eyes watching you with that cool, sharp stare, but the lower set were lazier, half-lidded, like he was halfway through a thought he hadn’t decided whether to speak aloud yet.

“You keep looking at my hands,” he said.

You looked away. “They’re everywhere. Hard not to.” He chuckled—deep and amused, like you were something he’d found under a temple stone. His fingers brushed against your waist one more time before finally letting go. The obi was perfectly tied. Of course it was. You stepped away, putting a little distance between you, heart ticking too loud in your ears.

“You’re ready,” Sukuna said, turning toward the door again. But as his hand touched the frame, he paused. Looked back at you. His gaze dragged down and up again, slow, assessing. “You look like something worth worshipping,” he said simply, and then slid the door open, disappearing into the hall like he hadn’t just set your entire chest on fire.

–

You shed the layers slowly. The shrine offering had lasted hours, filled with incense smoke, ceremonial chants, and the unnerving stillness of being watched—by shrine maidens, by spirits, and most of all, by him. The moment you returned to your quarters, you began pulling the robes off one by one. The outer layer first, then the weighty under-layers, until only the thinnest white silk clung to your skin, clinging slightly with the sweat from the firelit ritual. Your hair was pinned loosely, and you tugged the ornament free, letting it tumble over your shoulders as you moved toward your futon, bones aching from kneeling too long. The mattress was already rolled out, blankets fluffed. You collapsed into it face-first with a low sigh, the scent of camellia oil still clinging faintly to your sleeves.

It was warm.

Warmer than usual. You rolled onto your side, drowsy. The softness of the futon reminded you—uncomfortably—of another night. The one where you woke to silk sheets, to the scent of spice and cedar, to—

You touched your ribs absentmindedly. The soulmate mark was warm again. Not burning, but humming, gentle and strange, like a hand pressed lightly against your skin. You closed your eyes. Your breath slowed. He really was... something. Too tall. Too broad. Too much. And yet—when he looked at you from over his sake cup, smirking like he knew too much, your stomach had flipped. It wasn’t affection. Not quite. But something else, just as dangerous. You hated how aware you were of him now—the way his sleeves slipped off his shoulders, how the lines of his tattoos looked inked straight into muscle and heat. The way his voice dipped when he said your name. You curled under the blankets, sighing. The air around you smelled different tonight. Not your usual incense.

It smelled like—

Something shifted. A soft, wet sound broke the quiet. Your brows furrowed.

shlick shlick schlick

Another. Rhythmic. Faint, but unmistakable. You blinked into the dark, pulse skipping. The futon was still soft beneath you—too soft—and the scent now felt overwhelming. Clean and spiced, a little iron in the air, like—

Your eyes flew open. This wasn’t your room. It was darker. The shadows deeper. Lanterns flickering faintly against high lacquered walls. The futon was larger, draped in sheets too fine for a servant, and the air was warm from a brazier still glowing in the corner. Your heart seized. You turned your head.

And—

There he was. Sukuna. Sprawled beside you, bare from the waist up, the sheets rumpled around his hips. One hand braced against the floor beside him, the other between his thighs.

Moving.

You froze. His chest rose and fell steadily, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly parted. His hair fell loose around his shoulders, messier than usual, and there was a look on his face—relaxed, almost. Tension curling at the corners of his mouth with every movement of his wrist. You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t speak. He wasn’t wrong. He really did have two of them. They stood large and proud, stacked on top of one another, with a tattooed ring around the base on each of them, the tips both flushed red. His lower right hand was lazily working the one on the top, the head leaking with each tug of his wrist. The sound continued, slow and slick and maddeningly soft. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Couldn’t even process how you were here again—how you’d been pulled into his chambers without a single sensation of movement. Your mark throbbed faintly under your fingers. Tingling.

You didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare. But something must have given you away—a shift in your breathing, a twitch of your fingers—because Sukuna’s hand slowed. His head turned just slightly. And then his eyes slid open. All four of them. The top pair blinked lazily. The lower ones found you instantly, glowing faintly red in the low lantern light. Still, his hand didn’t stop. “Well,” he drawled, voice deep and amused, “look who’s awake. I noticed a while ago when you teleported.” Your entire body tensed. Heat exploded across your face like fire, your limbs frozen under the silken blanket. You tried to speak. Nothing came out. His mouth curved into a grin—slow, wicked. The kind that always came before trouble. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to realise you were here,” he said, thumb dragging lazily along the underside of his length as if this conversation were normal, as if you weren’t half-curled on your side beside him, wide-eyed and paralyzed.

“I—I didn’t—” you stammered, throat bone-dry.

“You didn’t what?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Mean to end up in my bed again? Or mean to stare?”

“I wasn’t—staring!” You yanked the blanket higher, half wanting to vanish beneath it. “I didn’t choose to be here!”

“That’s the thing about fate,” he murmured, finally slowing his hand until it stilled at his lower stomach. “Doesn’t ask for permission.” Your soulmate mark throbbed again, stronger this time—like it was reacting to the charge in the room, the way his eyes hadn’t left your face, the smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re really… doing that right next to me?” you whispered, horrified. Sukuna raised an eyebrow, amused. “I was doing it before you got here. You’re the one who dropped in uninvited.” You swallowed hard, eyes flicking away from his chest. “You could’ve stopped.” He leaned in slightly, elbows resting on his knees, voice lowering.

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see that look on your face.”

You scowled—but your heart was beating so fast it hurt. And just like that, he leaned back again, fingers ghosting down his abdomen once more. The heat between you was unbearable. His voice dipped, softer now, more dangerous.

“You gonna watch… or join me?” You meant to look away. You really did. But you couldn’t. Your eyes were glued to him—his shoulders loose, posture lazy, that monstrous body somehow more inviting than terrifying in the warm flicker of firelight. His hand was still moving slowly between his legs, the wet sounds far too loud in the silence, and your gaze—against your will—dropped lower. You genuinely couldn’t believe there weren really... two. Just like he’d said. And now you couldn’t stop seeing it. The thick twin ridges of arousal, curved and flushed and gripped firmly in his rough palm. It was obscene. It was unreal. And worst of all—

You were aroused. Not just flustered. Not just flushed. Aroused. Your thighs squeezed together under the blanket without meaning to. You could feel the heat between them, hot and growing slick, pulsing right under your skin. And the mark on your ribs—your soulmate mark—was burning. Not painful, but molten. Like it had its own heartbeat. A steady throb that matched the sharp, quickening rhythm of your breath. Across the bed, Sukuna smirked without looking up. Your stomach twisted. He finally glanced at you, his lower pair of eyes heavy-lidded, the top ones lazily narrowed. All four of them glowed faintly with the same heat you felt crawling across your skin. “I can see the way you’re squirming,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “The way you’re breathing. You’re trying so hard not to move.” You swallowed hard, throat dry as bone.

“I—” you started, but your voice caught. He tilted his head, smug. “Scared you’ll make it worse?” Your hands fisted the blanket. You were. Because if you moved even an inch, you might not stop. You’d never felt this before. Not like this. Not so fast, not so deep. In the village, you were nothing. Taught shame before anything else. The daughter of a woman who never married. No one touched you. No one wanted to. And you'd told yourself that was fine. Whenever need stirred, you took care of it alone. Quiet. Controlled. Always with the door locked. Always without mess. This wasn’t that. This was raw. Loud. Him. Your breath hitched again, and before you could stop yourself, the words escaped in a whisper:

“I’m a virgin.”

The moment they left your mouth, you froze. Horror overtook your expression. Sukuna’s movements stilled. His eyes glinted. Then—slowly—his mouth stretched into a grin. A vicious, satisfied grin. Canines bared. “I know,” he said. Your entire face went up in flames. “What—how would you—?”

“You think I can’t smell it?” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Smells like purity and frustration.” You made a strangled noise and curled in on yourself, panic flaring under the blanket. But you didn’t get far. In an instant—less than a blink—he moved. Not like a man. Not like anything human. You gasped, head whipping up, because suddenly he was in front of you—kneeling, looming, knees parted—and his claws were digging gently into your right thigh. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. His skin was hot where it touched yours, and with one slow, effortless pull, he dragged you closer—straight between his legs. You braced yourself on your elbows, wide-eyed. One of his hands still stroked lazily at himself, unbothered by the way you stared, and his voice dropped, rich and deliberate.

“I can teach you.”

Your breath caught.

“But only if you want to learn.”

He leaned in, one of his lower hands rising to cup the side of your face—not rough, not cruel, but firm, his thumb tracing just beneath your cheekbone.

“I don’t take what isn’t offered,” he said, gaze locked on yours, unblinking. “Even if fate drags you to my bed.”

The burn in your mark pulsed again. You could feel his against your skin now, somewhere near his hip—scalding, and perfectly in sync.

His mouth was just inches from yours. His voice, a murmur.

“So. What do you want?”

You didn't say the words. You didn’t need to. Your body said it for you—held still beneath his touch, not in fear, but in breathless anticipation. The blush rising to your cheeks. The way your legs tensed under his hold, yet didn’t pull away. The way your eyes didn’t leave his. The way your head inclined– a little too eagerly. Sukuna watched you, waiting. And then—he grinned. Not mocking. Not cruel. Smug, yes. But softer, in a way you hadn't seen before. Something hungry… but careful. “Tch,” he muttered, loosening his grip on himself with one last lazy stroke. “Didn’t think your first time saying yes would be without words.” Your lips parted, ready to protest, but he was already shifting—reaching lazily for the dark robe he’d discarded earlier. With a low rustle of silk, he draped it loosely over his lap, letting the heavy fabric veil both lengths of arousal from your line of sight. He caught your flicker of visible relief and gave a low chuckle. “Didn’t want to scare you,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, almost crooning. “You’ll see them again when you’re ready.”

Then his eyes found yours again—all four of them. Red. Gleaming. Lidded and sultry, tracking every inch of your expression like he was trying to memorize it. And beneath your ribs, your soulmate mark tingled. You gasped softly, feeling it pulse, and across from you, Sukuna inhaled just as sharply. “…There it is again,” he muttered, more to himself this time. “Always when you’re about to do something brave.”

Then, slowly, he leaned down. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hand slid beneath the back of your neck, the other still braced on your thigh as he eased you down into the pillows. Not like prey. Like something precious. He hovered above you—close enough to breathe the same air. His mouth was a whisper from your cheek. “You’ve never kissed anyone before,” he said. It wasn’t a question. You shook your head, just barely. Sukuna made a sound deep in his throat. Something between a laugh and a groan. “Of course not,” he said, and the edge of his mouth tilted again, predatory and amused. “You’ve never been seen before, have you?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat was tight. “Good,” he muttered, more to himself. “I’ll make sure you’re never forgotten after this.” Then he kissed your neck. Not soft.

Slow.

His lips were rough—chapped from too much sake and wind—but warm, dragging slowly up the column of your throat. His tongue traced the edge of your jaw, and his fangs grazed the underside of your chin as he moved, careful not to pierce. Your breath stuttered. He pressed another kiss. Then another. Up, up, until his mouth hovered just over yours.

“Don’t think,” he said. “Just feel.” And then—

He kissed you. It wasn’t delicate. It was confident. Firm. Guiding. His lips moved over yours with ease, coaxing your mouth to follow his rhythm. His lower hand slid behind your back, arching you up slightly so your bodies aligned, and you let out a tiny, helpless sound against his mouth that only made him smile into the kiss. “That’s it,” he murmured, pulling back for half a breath. “You're getting it. Try it again.” You did. This time, you kissed him back—shy and unsure, but willing—and he groaned low in his throat as if that was what unraveled him. “You’re so warm,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “So fucking soft.” His hands didn’t stray—just held you. Steady. Safe. The mark under your ribs flared again, and he felt it, too. His eyes flickered, all four glowing brighter in the dark. "Feels like fate's watching," he muttered. Then, with a grin:

"Let’s give it something worth remembering." He pressed his lips to yours again—rougher this time. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip, warm and insistent, and though your heart nearly leapt into your throat, you parted your mouth in response. A soft gasp escaped you as his tongue slipped in, slick and slow, winding with yours. The wet glide of it, firm and teasing, made your head spin. You hadn’t known a kiss could feel like this. Hadn’t known the simple joining of mouths could send heat pooling so deeply between your legs. And yet—this was Sukuna. You could taste him now. Warm sake and something darker. Spiced. He grinned against your lips, as if he could feel the way your body trembled beneath him. His lower hands gripped your hips, holding you gently but firm, keeping you beneath him while the upper pair slid across your shoulders—rough, but not unkind. His thumbs brushed over your collarbones through the thin fabric, and goosebumps rippled down your skin. He pulled back after a particularly wet kiss, strings of saliva clinging to both your mouths. All four of his crimson eyes locked on you, half-lidded, glowing with hunger.

“Take this off.” His voice was low, the command rasped more than spoken. One thick finger hooked lazily into the neckline of your undershirt, tugging at the fabric. The candlelight behind him threw warm gold across his bare chest, shadows dancing over the carved lines of his body. His tattoos shifted faintly as he moved, alive under his skin. The glint of his fangs showed when he smirked down at you. You swallowed thickly. Your hands hesitated at the hem. Sukuna caught that. His upper left hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, a rare flicker of gentleness crossing his expression.

“Don’t look so scared,” he murmured. “I said I’d teach you.” His voice dipped lower. “And I don’t break what’s mine.” Your breath hitched at that, the soulmate mark under your ribs pulsing sharply in response. He felt it too—you could tell by the way his eyes narrowed slightly, pupils dilating, his chest rising with a slow inhale like he was drinking you in. Then—one of his hands slid down, fingers curling around yours at the edge of your shirt. He helped you lift it, slow, patient. His eyes never left your face. When the fabric finally peeled away from your skin, he hissed under his breath. Not in mockery. But in something else entirely.

Desire.

“You’re soft everywhere,” he muttered, the pad of one thumb dragging across the dip of your waist. “Figures.” You flushed, squirming instinctively—but his lower hands pinned you again, gently grounding you as his gaze dragged over your newly bared skin. All four of his eyes were focused on the rise and fall of your breasts, watching the soft mounds sway up and down, a grin tugging on his mouth. His upper pair of arms caressed them– not softly but not roughly either, but rather, with the intent of bringing you pleasure. A gasp left you when his thumb flicked over the stiff buds on your chest, and his fanged grin grew wider, a mix of amusement, lust and the slight mockery he always implemented when he was around you. “Feels good?” He drawled lazily, working your breasts until you felt blood rush down to the place between your legs once more. Gasps and moans left you at each caress, each twist and tug, your hands gripping his silken sheets. You hadn’t known something like this could feel so erotic.

“Sukuna… please–” You gasped, hips bucking up, feeling an embarrassingly warm patch of arousal seeping at the front of your cotton underwear. “Please what, woman? Use your words, hm? I know you can– you were a mouthy little brat when we first met.” He said smugly, his crimson eyes gleaming as he gave a rough squeeze to your tits, snickering when he felt your back arch. You took in a deep breath, willing yourself to remember that he wanted this too– that this wasn’t scary. He had wanted to teach you, after all. “Please… touch me.” You surprised yourself with a bold move, grabbing one of his lower hands and placing it right between your legs. You stiffened at what you had just done– cheeks flushing pink, heartbeat quickening. But before you could utter out a single word, Sukuna’s mouth left a soft sigh, all four of his eyes dimming as his fingers felt the dampness between your legs. “You’re so fucking wet. Didn’t know a defiant woman like you had it in you,” he muttered, a low rasp catching in his throat as his fingers slid slowly, deliberately, through the slick heat between your thighs. You gasped again—he hadn’t even really done anything yet, but the sheer presence of him between your legs, his touch, his voice—your body was already trembling with need. The pads of his fingers circled over your clit, slow and cruel, making you shiver.

“Look at you,” he sneered softly, lips brushing your ear as he leaned closer, his breath hot. “So eager now. Bet you’d beg real sweet if I stopped.” Your hips twitched instinctively at the threat. “Don’t—” you breathed, your voice cracking. He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through your body like a tremor. “That’s what I thought.”

He worked his fingers up and down your slit, until you were shaking– his thick fingers never stopping their rough advance on your clit, occasionally slipping down to your entrance to circle it, lightly dipping the pad of his finger in, assessing your reaction. Once he had made sure you were wet enough, he circled your entrance with two fingers, leaning down to press an uncharacteristically soft kiss to your forehead, that didn’t contrast with his mocking words from before. With a slow, almost reverent motion, he slipped two thick fingers inside you. You clenched down around them instinctively, your head falling back into the futon as a broken moan escaped your lips. “Fuck,” he hissed, watching the way your body responded to him—eyes heavy, your thighs shaking slightly around his hand. “Tight little virgin cunt. You were made for this.”

You whimpered, squirming under him, overwhelmed—but not afraid. His touch was rough, yes, but not cruel. His claws didn’t scratch. His strength never bruised. He could’ve split you in two if he wanted, but he was holding back. All for you. One of his upper hands pushed hair from your face while the other remained at your side, possessive and warm. “You feel that?” he murmured, voice a little hoarser now. “The way your mark’s burning? Means you like this. Means your body wants mine.” You nodded—barely able to breathe. “It’s– it’s not just the mark.” That caught him. He stilled for a moment, four crimson eyes narrowing slightly—then he grinned, slow and dangerous. “Oh?” You bit your lip, unsure if you should’ve said it—but your hips gave a needy roll into his palm, your body betraying your answer. “Thought so,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again—sloppier this time, tasting your moans as he curled his fingers just right, dragging them against a spot that made your entire body jolt. “Don’t worry,” Sukuna growled against your mouth, voice like molten honey, low and rumbling. “I’ll take my time with you.” He meant it, too—because he didn’t just slam into you like the beast you feared he’d be. No—he eased you into it. The two fingers working inside you curved again, and you gasped, thighs twitching. He grinned, watching your reaction with the satisfaction of a god unwrapping an offering.

“Feels good?” he asked, even though the answer was clear in your fluttering lashes, your parted lips, the needy way your hips chased his hand. You nodded, a shy, breathless, “Yeah…”

“Use your words, girl,” he said, nipping your lower lip. “Tell me what you want.”

“I… I want more,” you managed. He hummed, pleased. “Good girl.” Then he drew back, slowly removing his fingers with a slick sound that had heat crawling up your face. “Relax,” he murmured as he tugged your thighs further apart with his lower hands, settling between them like a predator preparing to feast. “You’re going to take me now.” You swallowed, your eyes drifting down—and your heart nearly stopped. He was… huge. You’d already seen glimpses of him earlier, but up close, looming over you with both of his cocks heavy and dark against his lower abdomen, it became real. They were long, thick, veined—and terrifying. You weren’t sure how it was even possible. Your breath caught. “Sukuna, I don’t know if I can—”

“Shhh,” he said, and leaned down, pressing a softer kiss to your collarbone. “I told you I’d teach you. You trust me, don’t you?” You hesitated. But when you looked up into his four crimson eyes—gleaming with something almost close to reverence—you found yourself nodding. “Yes.” He exhaled, pleased, and brushed your hair back. “Good. Then relax.” He guided one of himself—the lower one— to your entrance, rubbing against your folds to coat himself in your slick. His upper arms cradled your head gently while the lower ones steadied your hips. He didn’t push in—not yet—just traced his tip through your arousal until you were squirming, your body aching for it. “You’re shaking,” he said, almost fondly. “I haven’t even put it in yet.”

“Sukuna,” you whined, embarrassed. His grin widened, fangs flashing. “You’ll be crying my name properly in a moment.” Then—slowly, so slowly—he began to push in. You gasped, hands fisting into the futon beneath you as the stretch hit you all at once. He was thick—your walls fought to accommodate him, and still he went gently, inch by agonizing inch. “Breathe,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your jaw. “You’re doing good. Look at you, taking me so well.” You whimpered, tears pricking your eyes. It wasn’t pain, not really—it was just overwhelming. The size, the heat, the intimacy. Halfway in, he paused. “Want me to stop?” You shook your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “No—keep going.”

His eyes darkened. “As you wish.”

And he did. He bottomed out with a low, guttural groan, his body pressing against yours. You clung to him, eyes wide, breath shallow, stunned by the feeling of being so full. “There,” he whispered, hips grinding slowly. “You feel that? That stretch? That heat? Fuck, you’re doing so good f’me.” You moaned when he rolled his hips again—slow, careful, his lower hands gripping your thighs to keep you still. He set a pace, not fast, but deep. Every thrust dragged a gasp from your lips. His upper hands never stopped roaming—stroking your ribs, your breast, your throat like he was memorising you.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmured again, voice nearly reverent. “So soft, so tight… fuck.” One of his hands slid between your bodies again, grabbing his hardened upper length, and guiding it to your clit with maddening precision. You jerked beneath him, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensation. He let out a pleased noise, rubbing the cockhead insistently against your clit while shallowly thrusting into you. You felt a tightening in your belly– a sign you were teetering on the edge.

“Sukuna—!”

“I know, I know. Let go, girl. I’ve got you.” You did. Your body arched, trembling, the mark on your ribs flaring with white-hot warmth as you came hard around him, whimpering into his mouth as he kissed you through it. And only when your walls stopped pulsing around him, only when your body went limp with exhaustion—did he start to fuck you in earnest. His rhythm changed—deeper, rougher, one of his other cocks grinding against your oversensitive bundle of nerves as he chased his own release. The sounds were obscene—your slick, your soft moans, his grunts of pleasure—but none of it felt wrong. It felt like something sacred. Something inevitable. He pushed himself up higher, grabbing your hips and folding your lower body in half, pounding you into the mattress, all while he parted his robe, letting the large tongue out to lap at your tits, the dual sensations making you cry and writhe for him. He came with a deep growl, hips stuttering, his arms curling around you tightly as he buried himself to the hilt. You felt warmth bloom inside you, and he didn't move, only held you there—chest heaving, breath hot against your throat. Your soulmate mark pulsed one final time—warm, pulsing, satisfied. He finally stilled, panting, his breath warm and ragged against your ear. For a moment, the only sounds were the wind brushing faintly against the outer paper walls and the rush of your shallow breathing beneath him. Then, with a low grunt, he slowly pulled out of you. You whimpered softly at the sensation, your entire body oversensitive, flushed, and warm all over. You didn’t dare look down—not when you felt the hot trail of his release trickle from you onto your inner thigh. Sukuna sat back on his heels, all four of his crimson eyes lazily dragging over your boneless form. His grin stretched across his face, fanged and smug. “Look at you,” he said, voice deep with satisfaction. “Fucked dumb already? One round and you’re ruined.”

You flushed furiously, trying to cover your face with your hands, but he easily batted them away, laughing. “No hiding now. I like this view,” he added, rough fingers gripping your thigh to spread you a little more, watching his own mess leak out of you. “Bet you never imagined this when you were yelling at me in the shrine.”

“Sukuna,” you groaned, mortified.

“‘Sukuna,’” he mocked sweetly, then snorted. “What, worried you’ll get pregnant already?” You hesitated. “…Will I?” He blinked at you, then barked out a laugh. “No. Idiot.” Your brows pinched, still nervous. “But—how do you know?” He wiped a streak of come from your thigh with his thumb, still chuckling. “Your human body can’t carry a cursed being’s spawn unless I mark you for it. It’s not something that just happens. It has to be deliberate.” Your eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” He leaned in, licking his thumb clean right in front of you. “Worried I’ll knock you up already, soulmate? Didn’t know you were so desperate to carry my brats.” You buried your face in the futon with a noise of protest, and Sukuna snickered. But after a pause, he grew quiet. Then, with an uncharacteristic gentleness, he reached to grab a soft cloth from a folded stack beside the bed. You jumped slightly when he pressed it between your legs, but he hushed you. “Relax,” he muttered, voice gruff. “Let me clean you.” He wiped you carefully—almost methodically—though he still made a few comments under his breath.

“Messy girl,” he murmured. “Took it all, though. Good job.” You felt warmth bloom in your chest at the praise, even if his tone was teasing. By the time he finished, your body felt like jelly—heavy and sore, but sated. Safe. He sat back again, clearly ready to move off the bed when your voice broke softly through the quiet:

“…Can you stay?” He paused. Your eyes stayed on the futon, your fingers curling lightly in the sheets. “Just for a bit. I… I don’t want to be alone tonight. Besides, you told me last time I can’t really leave because of those ancient wards and protections.” He let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Giving me orders in my own bedchamber. You’re going to make this a habit, aren’t you?”

“I—sorry, forget it—”

“Tch.” He was already lying down beside you. You blinked as he rolled you gently into his chest, one of his lower arms slinging around your waist, the upper resting behind your head. “Don’t make me say it,” he muttered, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you look like that.”

“…Like what?”

“Don’t ask so many questions.” You didn’t respond—not with words. You curled closer to him, and let the warmth of his body settle over you like a second blanket. For a few moments, there was nothing but slow breathing. Then his voice again, softer this time, yet carrying that familiar Sukuna roughness: “No more fuckin’ complaining about ever staying in this shrine again. Let me make it clear you belong to me now. And not just because of the soulmate bullshit.” You smiled faintly against his chest. “Yours, huh?” He snorted. “Don’t get cocky. It’s not a compliment.” But when you closed your eyes, he pulled you a little closer—one hand stroking down your spine, lazily soothing you into sleep. And just before you drifted off, you swore you felt his lips brush your forehead, light as air.

–

The morning sun slipped lazily through the slats of the wooden screens, casting golden lines across the futon. You stirred first, your limbs still sore, nestled in warmth that didn’t belong to the blankets. For a moment, you just laid there—head tucked beneath a sharp chin, chest pressed against solid muscle, his heartbeat slow and heavy under your ear. You tilted your head slightly and looked up. Sukuna was already awake. All four of his crimson eyes stared down at you beneath lidded lashes, unreadable and half-lazy. One of his hands was still curved around your waist, another resting behind his head like he hadn’t moved all night. “You drooled on me,” he said flatly. You blinked. “... Huh?” He smirked, sharp and satisfied. “Right here,” he said, tapping his bare chest. “Gross.” You shoved his shoulder weakly, but your face burned. “You’re the one who stayed.”

“You begged me to,” he said smugly, stretching with a slow ripple of muscle. “Clung to me like a baby monkey.”

“I did not!”

“Mm. You kind of did.” You buried your face in the blanket. It was all overwhelming in the soft glow of morning, like the night before had actually happened. Like he’d touched you, kissed you, held you. He was still here. You gave him a glance, a coy smile on your lips. “So like…, am I special now?” He turned, shifting until he was above you, strands of loose hair falling around his face. His grin was slow, teeth glinting.

“I didn’t say that.” You made an annoyed noise and started sitting up, dragging the blanket with you. But one of his hands caught your wrist.

“…Don’t go yet.”

You froze. He didn’t say it again—but he didn’t let go either. His thumb traced slow circles into your skin like he didn’t realize he was doing it. You looked at him quietly. “Okay.” He scoffed and dropped your hand. “Don’t speak.” Still… when you started getting dressed, he didn’t mock you for wincing from the soreness. He just watched you in that quiet, unreadable way again. And when you stepped out of the room, his voice followed you—dry and smug:

“Make sure to walk like you’ve been ruined. I have an image to uphold.” You flushed, scowled, and slammed the door shut. But your mark still throbbed warm and pleasant on your ribs the whole walk back to your room.

–

Everything changed after that night. Not in the obvious, world-shifting way. Sukuna still insulted your cooking, still barked orders at his underlings, still scoffed whenever you were “too emotional” or “soft.” But in the quiet spaces—between battles, between banter, between breath—he became something else. Yours. He never said it aloud like he did after that night. Of course he didn’t. But his hands said it when he returned from his blood-soaked travels and immediately sought you out, dirt still clinging to his robes. When he hauled you against his chest with a grunt and kissed you like the separation had physically offended him. When he bit your lip and then kissed the ache better. When he pressed his forehead against yours without a single word. “You’re late,” you’d murmur. He’d snort. “You’re clingy.” But he’d hold you anyway. And over time, his affections grew more brazen. Lavish, even. Your closet couldn’t contain all the silk kosodes, brocade uchikake, and embroidered under-robes he had sent in for you—each one more beautiful and extravagant than the last. Sometimes, you’d find his gifts hidden in odd places. A carved comb tucked beneath your pillow. Earrings glittering inside a lacquered bowl. Once, a dagger with your name etched into the hilt. “You spoil me,” you said once, trying to hide your flustered grin as you stepped into his chambers wearing a deep crimson robe embroidered with pale chrysanthemums.

He looked up from his seat, eyes sliding down your figure—hungry, satisfied. “You look less like a ragged villager now,” he said coolly. “I can tolerate it.” But the way his fingers curled around your waist to tug you down into his lap during dinner told a different story. He made a habit of it—pulling you into his lap, letting you feed him from your chopsticks with a sly grin. He’d mutter something about your hands shaking and then run his claws up your thigh beneath the table, just to watch your face. You'd squeak. He'd smirk. And later that night, he’d make good on the promises in his eyes—again and again, until your body trembled from being ruined in the best way possible.

You’d gotten used to the rhythm of it: the way he’d disappear for days or weeks, and how your chest would ache with longing without him near. But somehow, it was never a question anymore—never a maybe. When Sukuna returned, you’d find him. And when you did, you’d walk into his chamber without knocking, and he’d kiss you mid-step like he was claiming you all over again.

“You always find me first now,” he murmured once against your mouth. “I always know where you are,” you replied, breathless. “…Creepy,” he muttered. But his arms didn’t let you go. And it wasn’t just lust anymore—not really. There were nights when he let you curl into his side as he read, one arm around you idly while the other turned pages. He’d grumble when your hair got in his face, but he never moved away. Sometimes you’d catch him staring at your mark, glowing faintly when you touched him. Sometimes he kissed it. Sometimes you kissed his. And more often than not, it would end with you sprawled beneath him again, chanting his name like a prayer while he whispered filth and worship in equal measure.

He began to teach you—truly teach you, as if he’d silently decided your body was worth protecting, worth strengthening, simply because it belonged to him. “You ride like a peasant,” he sneered one morning, watching you awkwardly guide a restless horse in the training yard. But instead of walking away, he swung up behind you, his massive frame caging yours in the saddle. His hands rested over yours on the reins, his breath grazing your ear. “Keep your back straight. The horse can sense you’re pathetic.” You’d flushed, of course—half from his words, half from the heat of his body behind you. But under his sharp tutelage, you grew steadier, stronger. He pushed you in archery next, correcting your grip, adjusting your stance with hands that lingered a little too long on your hips.

You’re not bad,” he admitted once, after you landed three clean shots in a row. “For someone so insufferably loud.” But his praise was real—rare and gleaming like a gem—and it warmed something buried deep within your chest. It became your rhythm. Days of training, evenings of teasing meals, nights tangled together in breathless heat. The bond between you bloomed steadily, thickly, until it curled around everything. You shared more now—books, opinions, idle strolls, the occasional sarcastic bickering in front of stunned retainers who wisely kept their heads bowed. He never said the word love. But he looked for you before anyone else. Let you speak when others dared not. Let you touch him, freely, even when others feared to look. So when one morning you awoke, tangled beneath your silks, and found him standing in your doorway—arms folded, dressed for the day—you weren’t entirely surprised. You blinked sleepily, brushing hair from your eyes. “...Did something happen?”

“No,” he said simply. His gaze swept across your room, unimpressed, before settling back on you. “This space is small. Your things are cluttered. The bedding is thin.” You sat up, brows furrowing. “Are you... redecorating for me or something?” He gave you a look. “You’re to sleep in my chambers from now on.” Your heart skipped. He said it like it was a decree. A natural fact. As if the moon had always belonged in the sky and you had always belonged in his bed. In his room. His space. His orbit. You stared at him, mouth opening, but he cut you off with a lazy flick of his hand. “I don’t like looking for you. And it’s bothersome when you’re not already there.”

“But—”

“You snore,” he added flatly, turning as if the conversation was done. “I’ve accounted for that.”

You flushed. “I don’t—!” But he was already striding back down the hall. And yet—later that night, when you entered his massive chamber, your things had already been moved. His imposing form stood at the doorway, his face impassive, but eyes eager. “Well? Don’t make me drag you in.” And when he wrapped himself around you, your mark pulsing softly against his ribs, you realized what he’d really meant. You were his. And now, so was this—this quiet, nightly nearness. No longer borrowed. It was yours.

Over the months that bled gently into a year, something shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the tide tugging at the shore. But it was there. You felt it in the way Sukuna’s fingers brushed your lower back absentmindedly during meetings. In the way his lips found your temple in the morning, still half-asleep and grumbling, but always touching you, always reaching. He had become unmistakably yours. And you—somehow, unbelievably—had become his tether to something dangerously close to peace. He still ruled with an iron hand. Still made men tremble, still took what he wanted without blinking. But now, there were nights where he let the world burn a little less.

One such night, after a gathering of trembling vassals, you caught him in the hallway, irritation still clinging to his expression. “You didn’t kill anyone,” you said, surprised. He gave you a long look. “They didn’t deserve it.” You tilted your head. “Since when has that mattered?” He stepped in close, crowding your space like always. “Since I’ve had to start hearing your voice in my head, nagging like some scolding little sparrow.” You blinked up at him. “That’s not flattering.” He grinned—slow, sharp. “Didn’t say it was.” But his hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing idly against your skin. And then, like a secret just for you, he murmured:

“...It helps. Sometimes.” You touched his hand. And over time, things like that happened more and more. Sometimes he'd come back from battle, blood-drenched and scowling, and you would be waiting. You always were, now. You had learned how to clean him up wordlessly, how to thread your fingers through his hair while he sat on the floor between your knees, letting your warmth soothe away the monster in his bones. He taught you things others would never dare offer a woman. Strategy, swordplay, ancient languages. Let you argue with him. He didn’t always listen—but he always heard. And sometimes, on quiet evenings, you would both sprawl out in the library. Books open, limbs tangled, one of his arms wrapped lazily around your middle. “I’m still not a good man,” he told you once, his voice low as dusk fell. You looked over at him, brushing a strand of his hair aside. “No. You’re not.” His eyes gleamed with something hungry. “And you still stay.” You leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

“Every time.”

He didn’t say it. He never would. But in the way his arms crushed you to him, the way his mark pulsed warmly against yours—he didn’t have to. You were home.

–

The sakura trees outside his estate were beginning to bloom. Spring in this part of the province always came late — stubborn, slow to thaw — but when it did, the hills glowed pale pink for weeks. Petals scattered over the rooftops, slipped through the open shoji, caught in your sleeves when you passed through the inner courtyards. You had spent the day reading beneath one of them. By now it was late, and your limbs were heavy with warmth, your skin kissed golden from the sun. When you made your way back inside, the halls were quiet save for the flicker of lanterns and the familiar rustle of his presence. He was already seated in the library when you found him. One of his upper hands rested on a low table, a cup of sake untouched. His other arms were folded, two of them across his chest, the last propped on the armrest where he twirled a cherry blossom absently between his fingers. The petals looked absurdly delicate against claws that had once torn men in half. “You’re late,” Sukuna grunted, not looking up. “I wasn’t aware I was expected.”

“You always are.” You rolled your eyes fondly and stepped inside, slipping down onto the floor opposite him. The silence between you had long stopped being awkward. These days, it felt like comfort. You picked up the second cup he’d set out for you — always — and took a sip, your gaze flicking to the folded scrolls beside him. “War reports?”

“Boring ones.” You leaned forward, reaching to pluck the blossom from his fingers. “Is that why you’re being weird?” His eyes slid to yours. All four of them. Slow and assessing. And then, to your surprise, a grin curled over his mouth — too sharp, too knowing. “‘Weird’?” he echoed, clearly amused. “You keep sighing. And you're drinking sake without complaining. You’re practically domestic.” He snorted and downed his own cup in one go. “Tch. You're so full of yourself.” You giggled and sat back. “Admit it. You’re soft for me.” He growled in faux annoyance — and then sighed, tipping his head back until the corded column of his throat was bare, his hair brushing the floor. The candlelight cast shadows over his jaw, his mouth. “You know what your problem is?” he asked at last.

You raised a brow. “I have many.” He turned his gaze to you fully now — all four eyes narrowed, intent. Something different lingered there. Heavy. Not dangerous, but… weighted. “You made me want things I didn’t even remember I wanted,” he said. Low. Gruff. Your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he muttered. “You never do. You just exist. And I...” His jaw flexed. “I’ve been thinking. That maybe we should bind officially.” You blinked. “Bind?” He looked annoyed — with himself more than anything. “Marriage,” he snapped. “A ritual bond. Ceremony. Vows. Whatever name you want to slap on it.” Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You—what?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You’ve lived in my chambers half the year already. You sleep in my bed, wear my gifts, eat at my table.” His voice was sharp, but not unkind. “You’ve wormed your way into everything. Might as well seal it.” You stared at him. Genuinely speechless. And then, finally, you found your voice. “Sukuna. Marriage isn’t… casual. It’s sacred. It’s—”

“I know what it is,” he cut in. His tone softened after a pause. “It’s a bond. Not just soulmates, not just fate. A choice.” He leaned forward, his arms bracing on his knees. “You said once you were always treated like you weren’t good enough. That no one ever chose you.” You stared at him, lips parting, your heart stuttering hard in your chest. “Well,” he said, his grin a little mean but his voice entirely sure, “I’m choosing you now.” You swallowed.

“And if I say no?” you whispered. He shrugged. “Then you’ll still sleep in my bed, still wear my robes, still squabble with me over my brutality. You’ll still be mine, mark or no.” But something in his voice… sounded almost hopeful. You sat still for a long time, looking at him. Your Sukuna. With his four eyes, and two hearts (though he’d only admit to one). His jagged smile and hands that held you gentler than anyone else ever had. You reached across the space between you, threading your fingers through his. “...What kind of ceremony?” you asked, barely a murmur. He grinned—beamed, really. It was downright sinful how smug he looked. “The kind where you wear something pretty and I carry you over the threshold like a war prize,” he said, already pleased with himself. You groaned and dropped your forehead against his arm. “Unbelievable,” you mumbled. But your fingers stayed tangled in his.

–

The day of the ceremony arrives with no announcement. There is no festival, no preparation from the villagers, no procession of nobles. Not even the servants in the compound seem to know what’s going on — which is entirely intentional. You suspect Sukuna would’ve hated the idea of fanfare almost as much as he hated the idea of people seeing him do something so profoundly human. So it is just the three of you. You, him, and Uraume. Uraume is the one who gathers the ceremonial offerings. Silent, precise, pale as frost, they move with reverence. Despite their usual loyalty to Sukuna above all else, today they look at you with something softer in their expression — a kind of subtle approval. Perhaps it’s because they’ve seen what he is like with you. Or perhaps they’ve been waiting for this even longer than you have. It takes place in the inner shrine, the one no one is allowed into. The sacred room where the oldest incense urns rest and moonlight spills through the open roof onto the stone floor. A shallow basin of water is set between you and Sukuna, scattered with cherry blossoms that drift lazily across the surface. You’re dressed simply. No lacquered ornaments or jewels. Just the kimono Uraume had left out for you earlier that morning — silk, pale cream, embroidered with subtle gold thread along the sleeves. Sukuna is similarly understated, though he wears the finer version of his ceremonial robes — the one with the black sash and deeper crimson tones that match his eyes. He looks regal, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome. And somehow… nervous. Which is absurd. Because he’s Sukuna. Sorcerer King. Four-armed demon god feared by all—Yet here he is. Standing before you. His eyes flicking to your hands, then away, like he can’t decide if he wants to snatch them or keep pretending he doesn’t care. Uraume kneels beside the basin, offering both of you a small flame each — not from a match, but from a sacred wick. You watch as Sukuna takes it without a word and holds it above the water. You do the same. Together, you let the flames fall. They extinguish with a soft hiss. And as the smoke curls up and fades, Uraume murmurs something you don’t quite catch — old words. Words from before your time. And then they bow and slip out silently, leaving you alone with him. You feel your heart in your throat. It’s quiet now. Still. Sukuna looks at you, all four eyes lidded and unreadable. His jaw ticks, like he’s forcing himself to say something. “…That’s it,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. Your brows raise. “That’s it?”

“You said you didn’t want a crowd. So you get this. You, me, and the fucking moon.” You blink at him. And then… you laugh. Soft and stunned and full of something warm. He frowns. “You laughing at me, brat?”

“No,” you smile. “I’m just… happy.” Something shifts in his expression at that. He reaches for your hand. Not to pull you close, not to start something wicked like he usually would — just to hold it. His palm is warm and rough. The way his claws curl gently over your knuckles always makes your chest ache. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low and husky. “I’ve been yours,” you whisper back. “No. I mean now you’re mine. Not just fate, or soulmarks, or some stupid prophecy.” His thumb brushes over the back of your hand. “You chose this. You chose me.” You nod. He pulls you to him then — sudden but slow, careful. His upper arms wrap around your waist, his lower pair pressing between your shoulder blades, caging you in so close that all you can breathe is him. His scent, his warmth, the familiar steady beat of his heart against your chest. He leans his head down, until your foreheads touch.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he says, so softly it’s a vow. “Not divine will. Not time. Not death.” And for once… there’s no teasing in his voice. No wicked edge. Just love. You tilt your face up and kiss him. Tender. Lingering. A soft press of lips that seals something older than words. One of his hands lifts to cup your jaw, tilting it just so, deepening the kiss — but not with hunger. With reverence. When you part, you stay there. Foreheads pressed. His breath on your lips. “…So what now?” you murmur. He hums. “Now you’re mine. So you’ll sleep in my bed every night. You’ll wear my ring.” He produces something from within his sleeve — a carved bone band, smooth and warm from his touch. He slides it onto your finger with the same care he’d show a sacred blade. “You’ll eat beside me. Ride with me. Bathe with me. And if I leave to destroy something, you’ll be the one I come back to.” You look down at the ring on your hand. Then up at him. “And if someone else wants to marry me?” you tease. His eyes gleam. His grin is sharp. “I’ll kill them.” You snort and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. And he lets you hold him. Lets you stay like that as long as you need. Eventually, he murmurs, “I’ll have Uraume prepare the chamber.”

“What chamber?”

“Our bedroom.”

“…That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“Tch. Don’t push it, wife.” You grin into his chest. His heart thumps beneath your ear — steady, strong, his. A beat passes. Then another. And then, in a voice so low you nearly miss it, rough as gravel and thick with something he refuses to name, he adds:

“…I love you, you annoying little thing.” You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is carefully blank — but his ears are red. Your smile turns radiant. “Say it again.” He scoffs and grabs your chin, thumb pressing to your lips in warning. “Don’t get greedy.” But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t take it back. And for the rest of the night, neither of you let go.

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