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In this cursed and crumbling Heian era there was no one who could challenge Sukuna, where men built temples not to pray but to beg, where curses crept like fire through rice fields, and the old gods—useless, spineless things—trembled behind their painted screens, too afraid to speak his name aloud.

He was not merely feared—he was obeyed, worshipped, appeased. Entire villages had vanished beneath the weight of his displeasure, their names now spoken only in half-sobs and wrong prayers. Sukuna did not rule with grace. He did not rule with mercy. He ruled because there was no other name that could sit upon the throat of the land.

And so it was not out of desperation, nor challenge, nor hope for rivalry that rumors began to float into his halls like dust on the wind, but something else entirely—perhaps the gods, pathetic as they were, had grown bored of one man devouring the world.

They whispered of a creature in the south, one who held the remnants of Kyushu and Shikoku in his palm and bent space with the turn of his head. The whispers were always the same: six eyes, six terrible eyes, glowing like polished stones pulled from the deep belly of the sea, and skin so pale it seemed to glow with an inner light, not soft or celestial, but something colder—like bone, or moonlight on water that had no warmth left to reflect. His technique defied nature. His presence shattered logic. He was not human, not entirely, and perhaps not at all.

The creature was said to be a descendant of the Sugawara clan, but Sukuna scoffed at that. No human clan, no matter how old their ink-stained records or divine their ancestors claimed to be, could birth something like this. No one could name him without trembling. No one could describe his face the same way twice. Some said his smile drove men mad. Others said he never smiled at all.

Sukuna had, once or twice, considered visiting.

It would have been a simple thing. He could have left his shrine, crossed the sea with a single step, and torn down whatever cursed palace the creature slept in. He imagined the horror on the Sugawara retainers’ faces, imagined the way their paper charms would catch fire in their hands, how their ancient prayers would unravel when he arrived. He would break their heir over his knee like a branch and carve a warning into the mountain stones with the creature’s blood.

But Sukuna did not go.

And the world, unshattered, turned quietly on.

He told himself it was because the creature had not come to him. That if this six-eyed thing wanted to challenge Sukuna, he would have to cross into Sukuna’s domain, walk barefoot through the cursed wood, kneel in the shadow of the shrine that fed on gods and scream his name. Sukuna would not give him the courtesy of curiosity. He was worshipped. He was the blood-soaked sun around which this rotten age turned. He did not chase.

And yet—he wondered.

He never said it aloud, never allowed the thought to form with edges and weight, but when the winds carried stories through the lacquered doors of his throne room, he did not silence them. He let his attendants whisper while they served him. Let them speak of the creature with six eyes, the one who fought without moving, who wore white like a funeral shroud and never let his hands touch the dead. He asked, once, without meaning to, what the creature’s voice sounded like.

And when his servants could not answer, Sukuna was angry.

Was he truly so monstrous? Did the creature’s skin gleam like porcelain, slick with a sheen that never dulled? Did his teeth shine too sharp, too white, as though made for eating things that did not bleed? Did he float instead of walk? Did the air bend around him in refusal? Were his eyes grotesque, not in number but in expression, gazing out in six directions at once, never truly landing on any one thing for long?

Did the creature speak the language of humans, or did he hiss, guttural and unnatural, words filled with static and echo?

Sukuna imagined it often—always when the night was long and quiet, when the moon carved lines into his domain and the wind dragged its nails across the stones of the shrine. He imagined something crawling from the sea, draped in white, with eyes like polished orbs and hands that shimmered with power older than curses. A creature. A god. A mistake.

He told himself he hated the idea. That he would one day crush it like an insect.

And so, when dusk fell over the shrine and Sukuna lounged in his throne carved from black lacquer and bone, bored and blood-sated, listening to the hushed clink of steel in his monk’s hands, he did not expect the world to shift. Uraume, his loyal ward and cold-eyed attendant, knelt a few paces away with sleeves pushed up and expression calm, showing Sukuna the new knife they’d taken from a trembling village girl that morning—a thing slim and ceremonial, still smelling faintly of ash and camellia sap.

But then—the air turned. Subtly at first. As if something ancient and heavy were waking in the marrow of the mountain, dragging itself up through the floor of the shrine with quiet hands.

Sukuna felt it immediately. Not in the room, not in the walls—but inside the pressure of the world itself, folding around something fast, immense, and entirely unfamiliar. A cursed energy so immense it arrived before the body that carried it, thick and perfect and wrong, too refined to be wild and too vast to be trained. A thing that had not been born of war or hatred or even ambition, but from some stranger law. It moved toward his throne as though it had never known to hesitate.

Uraume looked up at once, their fingers curling protectively around the hilt of the blade, their voice cool and reverent.

“Shall I remove it for you, my lord?”

They were already rising to act, the steel glinting softly in the firelight.

But Sukuna did not move. He lifted a hand with a leisurely grace, a half-smile curving across his mouth like a knife drawn too slow.

“No,” he said. “It’s strong. I’ll see it myself.”

Let it come. Let it enter. Let it be foolish. If someone had dared to step into his open domain uninvited, to walk into the very heart of his shrine and challenge the weight of his divinity, then they would not walk out again. They would be torn apart before they had time to speak.

And then, without fanfare, the doors to his inner sanctum opened.

No guards. No chants. No warnings.

The air turned silver. And something stepped through.

Sukuna leaned forward before he realized he was moving.

What he saw was not what he expected. It was not grotesque. It was not monstrous. It was not the slick-jawed, many-eyed sea-thing that rumor had promised him. It was something infinitely more disarming.

The creature was pale—not in the way of corpses, but in the way of untouched snowdrifts at dawn, glowing faintly where the light caught on bare skin. His hair was the same color, soft and wild and wind-tangled, an unruly white that swept over his brow and curled at the edges like it had never known a comb, the ends drifting slightly as if even the air bent to his presence. His limbs were long and finely built, elegance drawn out into height—his body that of a shrine dancer or a high-born priest, all poise and deliberate grace, but his eyes—his eyes were not of this world.

Wide, crystalline, lake-colored eyes, impossibly deep and gentle, as though they had seen the world and decided to mourn it instead of burn it. They shimmered in layered shades of blue and violet, like water catching dusk, and they turned—slowly, carefully—toward Sukuna, not with challenge, not with reverence, but with a strange, quiet hesitation, as though this creature could not quite decide if he had made a mistake by coming here.

His lips—pink and glossy, soft-looking in a way that made something hot stir low in Sukuna’s throat—parted slightly, but he said nothing. His face was cut from the shape of beauty the old gods used to envy: smooth jaw, high cheekbones, a nose sculpted with arrogant precision, and brows that lifted faintly with something close to vulnerability. He did not look like a weapon. He looked like a prayer that had never been answered properly.

Sukuna’s domain surged in protest. Cursed energy, volatile and sharp, lashed through the room like broken lightning, slicing walls and air, ripping open stone and wood, the shrine itself crying out in rejection of the intruder. Anyone else would have been reduced to shreds, their body torn open along infinite planes, their very soul shredded.

But this creature did not bleed.

The cuts passed over him like wind over silk. Reality bent to protect him. His cursed technique—a thing Sukuna could not yet name—wrapped around him like a veil, holding the violence at bay with the ease of a sigh.

Still, he moved forward.

Step by step, with an uncertain grace, like someone walking into a dream they had not asked to enter, his eyes never leaving Sukuna’s face. He did not speak. He did not smile. But in his silence, there was no arrogance. Only wonder. Only stillness.

And Sukuna, for the first time in an age, found that he had nothing to say. His mouth was dry. His fingers, usually curled in lazy threat, went still on the arm of his throne.

This was the Six Eyes.

Not a monster. Not a rival. Not a mistake.

A creature—yes. But one carved from the edges of something divine. Something Sukuna could not name. Something beautiful.

“Why,” he asked, amused now more than anything, “has the Six Eyes come to my domain?”

The being flinched—almost imperceptibly—and then straightened with effort.

“Call me Satoru,” he said. “I’ve come to ask Ryomen Sukuna for help.”

At that, Sukuna tilted his head. His tone, when it came, was edged and amused.

“Why,” he asked again, “should Ryomen Sukuna help the Six Eyes?”

But the boy—no, the creature—did not retreat. He only looked up at Sukuna through those impossibly thick lashes and said again, with the faintest hint of insistence, “Call me Satoru.”

A beat. Then:

“Is it true what they say?” Satoru asked, softer now, his hands clenched at his sides. “That you are as vengeful as they claim?”

Sukuna's laugh was a low rasp.

“I do what pleases me,” he said. “Only my pleasure exists. If revenge brings me joy, I will take it. If it does not, I won’t bother.”

Satoru’s throat bobbed. His voice, when it came again, was barely a whisper. “And would avenging me bring you pleasure?”

Silence followed. The wind in the room seemed to die.

Sukuna finally stood, descending the steps from his throne one by one.

“What revenge?” he asked, his voice softer now, not cold—but curious.

Satoru looked away, lashes trembling. “1 year ago,” he said, “the one I loved was killed. My clan said he was a distraction. They said I was losing my edge.”

He swallowed. “They killed him. And they locked me in the estate. I only escaped today.”

Sukuna studied him—truly studied him now. This creature was no older than nineteen, maybe twenty. A few years younger than Sukuna himself. Still fresh. Still bright-eyed and foolish.

“Why not kill them yourself?” Sukuna asked, voice cool.

“I can’t.” Satoru’s lips pulled into a pout, an expression more fitting of a spoiled noble child than a sorcerer of legend. “I made a binding vow. I can’t lay a hand on them.”

Sukuna scoffed, stepping forward.

“When did you make such a vow?”

Satoru met his eyes. “They say it was among my first words.”

Typical of the Sugawara clan. Shackling their children with oaths before they could even speak for themselves.

Sukuna let out a humorless laugh. “Then what would you offer me in return?”

Satoru blinked. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But—what if I made a binding vow with you?”

There was a long pause.

Sukuna stared at him. This creature had no idea what he was doing. Beautiful, yes. Powerful, obviously. But sheltered. Naïve. Utterly unaware of how the world moved beneath its skin.

Sukuna took one step closer, close enough to touch.

And then he did.

One hand rose and gripped Satoru’s jaw—not roughly, but firmly, possessively, like Sukuna was inspecting something that had wandered too close. Satoru squirmed in his palm, pink lips twitching, clearly annoyed—but he didn’t pull away. Sukuna’s thumb pressed against the center of that pout, and with two fingers, he forced the boy’s mouth open, slow and deliberate, until he could see inside.

The teeth were not sharp, not like the legends whispered behind paper doors. No fangs, no hidden rows of blades—just the simple, soft-looking teeth of a creature who’d been called a monster all his life. Human, despite everything. More human than he should have been.

Sukuna leaned in a little, voice almost amused.

“Don’t go around offering vows to strangers,” he murmured, fingers still curled beneath Satoru’s chin. “You don’t know what they’ll take from you.”

Satoru, his cheeks flushed, looked up through those snow-pale lashes and pouted again, this time almost in defiance.

Sukuna was about to say something—he wasn’t sure what—when his domain stirred behind him. He looked up.

Figures. Lurking just beyond the edges of the room. Waiting.

Sukuna released Satoru’s face. The creature rubbed his jaw, annoyed and petulant.

Sukuna cocked his head. “Friends of yours?”

Satoru’s gaze darkened. “They’re here to take me back.”

Sukuna raised one brow. Then, slowly, with something close to delight spreading across his face, he turned toward them.

From the far edge of his domain, the voices came—grating, cold, echoing like iron dragged over stone. They did not ask. They declared.

“The boy belongs to us.”

Satoru froze.

His spine went rigid, mouth slightly open, as if struck dumb not by fear, but by something older—like habit, like memory. He did not speak as they gave their command.

“Come back.”

And he obeyed.

Not swiftly. Not willingly. But with the slow, inevitable drag of something being pulled by thread and nail. His feet moved as if wading through thick mud, each step harder than the last, his limbs trembling as if the earth itself were trying to hold him back. Sukuna watched, chin resting on one ringed hand, bored already.

“Is this,” Sukuna drawled, “also part of your binding vow?”

Satoru nodded—tiny, tight, as if even that motion hurt—and kept walking.

“Do they have complete control over you?”

Again, a nod. Again, that agonizing, reluctant pace forward.

Sukuna sighed—not from frustration, but from the low, lazy ache of opportunity.

“Well then,” he said, “killing them WILL bring me pleasure.”

He simply raised one hand, fingers twitching once like a king flicking a fly from his throne, and the air shuddered. Cursed energy, thick and crimson, rolled across the grass like a storm tide. A single swipe.

The clan members did not scream. They had no time. They simply crumbled where they stood, flesh turned to ash, bones split open, eyes wide and bloodless as the wind took them. Nothing dramatic. No lesson. Just death, clean and final.

Satoru turned slowly. His face was all wide-eyed disbelief—no horror, no gratitude, just the silence of a boy who had never been saved before and had no idea what to do with it.

He turned to Sukuna like a child turns to fire. Gaping. Reverent. A little bit afraid.

Sukuna rose, bored again, robes swaying as he turned to return to his throne—but a hand caught him.

Satoru’s hand.

Thin fingers wrapped around his arm, desperate, trembling, far too warm.

Sukuna was already turning to snarl, lips curling in irritation, but he stilled when he saw the expression on the creature’s face. Eyes too wide, lashes casting long shadows, mouth still parted like he hadn’t remembered to close it.

“What—” the boy breathed. “What can I do to repay you?”

Sukuna stared down at him.

So powerful, this Six Eyes. So naive. So stupid.

There were a thousand things Sukuna could demand. He could make the boy renounce his clan, cast aside his land, strip away every right and relic of his name. He could carve a seal into that pretty soul and twist it to suit his whim, watch him kneel and obey with glassy eyes and silken breath.

He could keep him close, not as soldier or servant, but as something sweeter. Something pliant. Something that warmed his bed and whim both, lovely and lithe, gasping beneath the weight of devotion.

But where was the fun in that?

 “Nothing,” Sukuna said at last, calm as winter. “But one day, you’ll be stronger. Not so naive. Not so stupid.”

He leaned close, and his smile was crooked, cruel.

“And on that day, I’ll defeat you.”

Satoru looked—strangely—offended. But he said nothing. He stepped back slowly, whispered his thanks, and left, disappearing into the trees like a figure from a dream.

Sukuna watched him go, four arms loose at his sides, crimson eyes gleaming.

He thought of those eyes. That pale throat. That strange, untrained power that burned like a sun beneath skin.

And all he could think was:
How could something human look so beautiful?

It must have been a month before Sukuna heard from the Six Eyes again, this time in letter form. A servant—tongue held, eyes lowered—offered the scroll at dawn, the wax still warm from the seal. Sukuna turned it over in his palm, amused. Addressed in fine brushstrokes and bound in pale silk, the letter bore the sigil of the ancient Sugawara line, and underneath, a second mark, fresher—personal. From Kyushu.

So that’s where the boy kept his roost. Brazen. Stupid, to reveal such a thing so easily. But then again… how very like him to turn vulnerability into a weapon. How interesting.

Sukuna unrolled the scroll and read, amused:

***

To the one who cleaved the heavens so carelessly,

I write not out of obligation, but in gratitude—though I imagine that word tastes strange to us both. Still, I offer it freely: thank you. The gesture you made—however indulgent, however drenched in your own amusement—unraveled the last thread that held my clan’s leash. With the elders gone and the cowards scattered, I now walk my own lands without whispers at my back. Their power is mine. Their temples, their relics, their bloodlines—all of it now bends to me.

I will not pretend it was all my doing. I know what you did. I know how little effort it cost you.

But I also know this: I am not as soft and naïve as I looked. Already, I can see further than I once did. I understand more.

You will be repaid. Not with gold or prayer or any trembling, blood-warm offering you might enjoy. I’ll repay you in the only coin you respect. In power. In truth.

In time.

Until then,
Satoru of the Sugawara Line
Keeper of the Six Eyes

***

Sukuna nearly laughed—how absolutely adorable. The boy thought himself clever, thought his fire was something new beneath the sun. Sukuna reached for a fresh scroll, dipped his brush in ink, and wrote with the lazy elegance of a man thoroughly entertained:

***

To the little godling who mistakes sparks for lightning,

You write well. I’m almost touched. Were I a gentler sort, I might have wept at the poetry of your gratitude. But I’m not, and I didn’t.

Tell me—what, exactly, do you imagine you have that I might want? Land? I’ve drowned cities in ash and rebuilt palaces on their bones. Power? I’ve torn it from the hands of emperors and yokai alike, and eaten better men than you before breakfast.

Perhaps you think it’s yourself you’ll offer me. Now that… that has potential.

Still, a word of warning, pretty boy. You shouldn’t let your mouth run so freely. Not when there are creatures in this world who’d like to see it sewn shut.

Not when some of us have already imagined it occupied otherwise.

Be careful who you promise repayment to. Some of us have long memories. And worse appetites.

—Sukuna

***

It was a week later, after a long hunting trip, that Sukuna returned to the shrine with blood on his hands and satisfaction in his bones. He dropped the bodies of elk and deer at the feet of his servants, who scrambled to collect and clean them without delay, eyes cast low and voices silent.

He paid them no mind.

Because there—waiting beside the brazier, nestled among clean scrolls and sealed offerings—was another message. Another scroll, tied in pale blue silk, unmistakably written by that foolish, arrogant boy.

Delighted, Sukuna tore the silk with a predator’s glee, unrolling the parchment with hands still slick and red from the hunt.

The handwriting was tighter this time. Less formal. Angry.

***

To Ryomen Sukuna,

You are not as clever as you think. Nor as untouchable.

You laugh at me now, but there will come a day when you will kneel before someone stronger—me. I’ll carve the respect I deserve from your smug mouth if I must.

You mistake me for soft. I am not. You mistake me for a boy. I am not. I am as grown as you.

You say you’ve devoured gods. Then let me be the one to make you starve.

Enjoy your throne while it lasts. I’m coming for it.

—Satoru of the Sugawara line
(pretty boy, apparently)

***

Sukuna stared for half a breath—then burst out laughing. A full-bodied, delighted sound that echoed off the stone walls of his domain and sent the nearby servants stumbling in fright.

Blood still on his hands, the scent of the hunt thick in the air, Sukuna clutched the scroll like it was a precious gift.

“Oh,” he murmured, amusement curling like smoke in his throat. “You really are the most interesting thing I’ve seen.”

He would have to write back.

Sukuna waited a month before replying. He wanted the boy to squirm in impatience for how he wrote to him. He wanted the boy to stare up at his bedroom ceiling, pouting with his pretty lips and wondering why Sukuna was not answering him—why the man who laughed at his threats and teased him with a blade’s edge of attention had gone quiet.

So when Sukuna had torn down yet another provincial rebellion—when the river ran red again and the crows were fat from feasting—when the blood had been scrubbed from his skin and his soldiers lay sleeping under secured borders and burning torches—only then, irritated and bone-tired and still thinking of that sharp little tongue in a soft mouth, did Sukuna finally sit down to write.
The brush felt good in his hand. He pressed it to parchment like it was a knife to flesh.

***

To Satoru of the Sugawara line,

You are very bold to speak of kneeling. Bold in a way that almost makes me forgive your insolence—almost. I admit, I laughed. The image was simply too sweet to resist: you, all frost and fury, down on your knees before me, hands curled at the edge of my robes, lips parted with something far more useful than empty boasts. But you weren’t thinking of that, were you? You were thinking of glory. Of power. Of your name carved into the air like lightning and believed yourself untouchable.

How young and sheltered you are.

You speak as though your bloodline shields you, as though the gods will protect their favored child from the likes of me. But I’ve buried gods beneath the black earth, little one. I've watched priests sob prayers through broken teeth and kings weep for their mothers when they died under my hand. What makes you think your name—your precious, noble name—would last any longer in my mouth than your body would beneath me?

Still, you amuse me. You spark like flint in a room soaked with oil, and I’ve always had a taste for fire. But make no mistake: you are not ready. Not for what you’re playing at. Not for what you’re tempting. You say I will kneel before you—how charming. Let me offer a clearer prophecy: you, on your knees before me, not in conquest but in surrender. No sword, no power, no titles. Only silence and heat and a trembling mouth, realizing too late that reverence is sweeter when laced with a little fear.

I am not merely a man, Satoru. I am the ruin men throw themselves at. The altar they bleed on. The god they curse for being too beautiful as he tears them apart.

So write to me again, if you dare. But be very careful how you address me. Words have consequences. And should I ever curl my fingers in your direction, you’ll come crawling, just as I expect you to.

Now be good and dream of me.

—Ryomen Sukuna

***

Sukuna was shocked when the next letter arrived in less than a week.

The seal was crisp. The parchment still carried the faintest trace of incense—something heady and sweet, perhaps placed among Satoru’s linens or at the bottom of a drawer, close to skin. Sukuna did not open it in the hall. He tucked it away with surprising restraint, ignoring the curious glance of his steward and the flicker of interest in his general’s eyes.

He read it that night, alone. The fire was low and the ink on his fingers had long dried from his previous letter. He reclined against the lacquered wood of his headboard, letting his eyes fall over Satoru’s words slowly, line by line, breath held somewhere between amusement and anticipation.

***

To Ryomen Sukuna,
(who waits until I’m restless before replying—how predictable of you),

You ask if I’ve dreamt of you. I thought it was obvious. I’ve dreamt of you since the day you slaughtered those who held my leash. Since the day you avenged me. I’ve dreamt of you twice a week, at minimum, and if that flatters you, fine. Consider it a gift. I have little enough sleep as it is. You might as well haunt what’s left of it.

(Though if you must know, in one dream you had two heads and wings made of ash. You said nothing, but I woke up with my heart hammering and my palms sweating.)

Do you dream of me?

Don’t lie. I’d rather you say nothing than pretend you do.

As for the rest of your letter… I admit, I may have spoken too sharply. But I don’t take kindly to being condescended to—no matter how impressive the teeth or the bloodshed. I’m not made to be tamed. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand power, I do. I’ve grown into something that others fear now, too. You weren’t the only one born to break things.

You call me sweet and young like it’s an insult. I won’t correct you. Let that be my advantage. But you should know I’m not naive, and I’m certainly not yours—not unless I choose to be. You’re not the only one with appetites.

Still, I’ll admit something else, since you like honesty so much: When you write to me, I don’t think about war or vengeance or anything noble.

I just think about you, smiling with blood on your lips, and it makes my throat feel tight. Like I’ve swallowed something hot. Like I’m still burning from it.

I hope you’re satisfied.

—Satoru of the Sugawara line (and nothing else you'd dare put in your mouth)

***

He didn’t show a reaction—wouldn’t give the boy that satisfaction—but his eyes lingered longer than he intended, and when he finally set the scroll down and extinguished the lamp beside him, he did not sleep as quickly as usual.

When sleep finally took him, it did so gently, as though coaxing him into a world spun from another’s fingertips.

The dream unfolded slowly, as if it had always been there—hidden beneath the blood and smoke of Sukuna’s waking thoughts, waiting for him to let his guard down.

The battlefield was gone. There was no steel, no screaming, no heat of war. Instead, a still lake stretched wide beneath a sky just beginning to pale with dawn. Mist curled low over the water, soft and silver, and the trees stood silent in their robes of green, their reflections rippling gently on the surface.

Sukuna stood on the shore. Barefoot. Quiet.

He didn’t remember walking there. He only knew he was waiting.

And then he turned—and there he was.

Satoru stood a little behind him, dressed in white. Or something close to it—his robes shimmered faintly like silk just before it slips through the fingers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He only looked at Sukuna, wide-eyed and hesitant, his cheeks pink with something that could have been embarrassment or longing or both.

The boy was beautiful in dreams, and cruelly soft in the way only dreams allowed. His hair stirred in the wind. His lips parted as if to say something—

But Sukuna didn’t let him.

He reached out, seized Satoru by the wrist, and tugged him forward in a sudden motion that startled even the still air around them. Their mouths met before words could. Satoru’s gasp was caught between them, a sound swallowed by the kiss, and his fingers curled against Sukuna’s chest like he didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.

The lake rippled. The sky turned bluer. Sukuna could feel the warmth of Satoru’s mouth, the softness of him, the tremble of restraint giving way to something deeper—something he had never tasted but craved all the same.

And then—

He woke up.

His chest heaved. His lips were parted. The room was dark, humid, and too warm; his sheets tangled and clinging to his body with sweat. Sukuna lay there in silence, eyes open and wild, staring up at the shadows painted on his ceiling.

He exhaled once, sharply, like it might clear his lungs.

But it didn’t.

He could still feel Satoru’s breath against his mouth. He could still see the look in his eyes—unafraid, but unsure, and so painfully real. Sukuna pressed a hand to his own chest and cursed under his breath, furious with how fast his heart was beating.

Just a dream, he told himself. A silly stupid dream.

Just a boy with moonlit eyes who was taking up far, far too much of Sukuna’s thoughts. Even in sleep.

Sukuna was not a creature given to introspection. He lived for pleasure, for power, for the raw and immediate satisfaction of want—his own or no one’s. So when he found himself lingering on thoughts of the Six Eyes, not in hunger or strategy, but in something softer, less defined, he grew irritated with himself. Flustered—if he were to use a word he never had and never would admit aloud. It was intolerable. He decided, without ceremony, that he would not respond to the latest letter. What purpose did it serve, after all? Let the boy feel the weight of silence. Let him wonder, let him want. Sukuna would not be pulled into something that made his chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Weeks passed.

He told himself he had forgotten about it—that the itch of curiosity would fade if he simply fed it nothing. And yet, the day Uraume returned with another sealed scroll, holding it out with the same impassive expression as always, Sukuna felt something twist low in his stomach. His heart, that treacherous thing, both leaped and stilled, as if unsure whether it wanted to flee or chase.

He stared at the scroll for a long moment. One part of him, the part that ruled with fire and blood, told him to burn it, to crush it between his fingers and pretend he never saw it. Another part—quieter, more human, and far more dangerous—ached to know what the boy had said.

The second part won.

He stopped drawing a map of his conquest lands he was working on, tore the seal with a sharp flick of his nail and unrolled the parchment, expecting irritation, or arrogance, or something clever and sharp. But what he found was far simpler.

***

To the Great Ryomen Sukuna,
who once took the time to write,
and now does not,

It’s been weeks. I thought perhaps you were busy—tired, bloodied, victorious, I imagined, of course. I know well how the world bends at your feet. And yet still, I thought you would write back.

I had told myself I wouldn’t care if you didn’t. I even said it aloud, once, hoping it would make it true. But then I dreamt of you again. That makes seven now, unless I’m forgetting one. Seven nights where your face found me, where the smell of smoke and something older filled the edges of dreams, where I could almost feel your voice.

Do you remember what I asked you before? I said I would rather you tell the truth than lie, even if the truth was that you had never dreamt of me. But I’ve changed my mind.

Lie to me.

Even if you haven’t. Even if I’ve never once crossed your thoughts in sleep or in silence. Write to me and say that you have. Let me believe it.

Say you dreamt of me too.

—Satoru,
from the line of Sugawara,
(who is now being ignored)

***

Sukuna stared down at the scroll in stunned silence.

The letter had been short—barely a handful of lines—but it might as well have been a dagger driven straight into his ribs. His heart was pounding before he’d even realized he’d stood. His hand twitched at his side, fingers stained with dried ink from a map he’d been sketching—forgotten now, useless. The taste of Satoru’s words lingered in his mouth like wine gone bitter.

He reached for a fresh scroll. His hand trembled. The brush slipped once. He cursed, quietly, the flush rising to his cheeks as he forced his grip steady. Then, carefully, deliberately, he began to write.

***

To the boy too foolish to be afraid,

You should not have written to me again.

And yet, you did. Your words arrived like a whisper in my ear, soft and persistent, too bold for your own good. I told myself I wouldn’t answer. I told myself you were becoming… distracting. But then I read your letter. And my heart pounded.

You asked me to lie—to say I’ve dreamt of you.

But I have no need for lies, Satoru.

Yes. I’ve dreamt of you.

Once. No more. It was enough to remind me that even in sleep, you trespass. You stood at the edge of a lake, your mouth quiet, your eyes louder than thunder. You didn’t speak, and still, I heard everything. You looked at me as if you wanted something. So I took it. I kissed you hard enough to bruise—and then I woke, already angry, already aching.

You don’t understand what you’re playing with. You think this is flirtation. That I’ll keep replying like I’m some boy waiting for your affection. But I do not pine. I devour.

You call to me like a moth calls to flame, not realizing the fire does not love back. It only burns. If I reach for you, Satoru, it will not be gentle. It will not be sweet. It will not be kind.

But I will still reach.

You tempt a thing that does not know how to stop once it begins. You press your mouth against the gates of hell and dare it to open. You ask me for dreams. For kisses. For lies. You will get all three. Just know they will cost you.

So write again, Six Eyes.

Feed the fire you’ve lit.

And pray that when I come to claim you, you are still smiling.

—Sukuna
The curse in your blood

***

The call came on the wind, sharp and threaded with smoke: a monstrous curse in the shape of a dragon, tearing through villages on the edge of his dominion, feasting on livestock and fear. Sukuna didn’t hesitate. He rose from his throne, summoned his blades, and vanished into the storm-churned horizon, leaving only the echo of his name behind.

It took nearly a week to reach the place where the land had turned black and wild from the curse’s presence. The air was thick with the taste of scorched earth and human dread. The beast was massive—scales lacquered in soot, eyes glowing like molten opal, breath steaming with malice. But Sukuna smiled, slow and joyless.

He began with Cleave, splitting the earth beneath the creature’s belly, his blade sinking deep into flesh that hissed and regenerated too quickly for comfort. He shifted, vanished, reappeared in the sky, and brought his arms down in a vicious X of Dismantle, slicing twin gouges along the dragon’s shoulders. The creature screamed—a keening, furious sound—and retaliated, spitting a river of blighted fire. Sukuna didn’t flinch.

He walked through flame and shadow alike, letting his Reverse Cursed Technique sew shut what burns licked open. His mouth twisted with pleasure when he tasted blood on his tongue—his, the curse’s, it no longer mattered. He roared back, a sound like iron grating against bone, and summoned his domain.

It cracked open around them—a shrine of ancient stone and deathless silence. Within, he ruled unchallenged. Space itself split under his will. The dragon writhed as the Fallen Shrine collapsed upon it from every side, folding its vast, snarling form into pieces and pieces and pieces.

When it ended, the valley was silent. Blood soaked into the soil. Scorched trees snapped in half like rotted bones. And all around him, the survivors of the destroyed villages—peasants and soldiers alike—had gathered, trembling and wide-eyed. They dropped to their knees before him as if commanded, though he hadn’t spoken a word.

He walked through them as one walks through grass. He did not stop. He did not acknowledge their awe. That was not why he fought.

The return took longer. His body ached from overuse, his bones humming from days of channeling cursed energy without pause. He killed beasts on the road without even blinking. He slept only when his limbs gave out. But eventually, after nearly a month away, his fortress rose from the mist once more, high and cruel against the red dusk sky.

He stepped into his chambers with the intention of collapsing—and paused.

There, lying on the silken expanse of his bed, was a sealed scroll. Thin and ivory, bound in a delicate silver thread. It bore no crest.

But the moment he saw it, his breath caught. A servant had placed it here. Left without explanation. But Sukuna already knew who it was from.

Of course he did.

His exhaustion didn’t vanish—but it shifted. Changed into something taut and hot and restless.

He sat slowly, reaching for the scroll with hands that still stung from battle. And, carefully, he broke the seal.

***

To the great and terrible Ryomen Sukuna who dreams of me,

I am relieved, perhaps more than I expected, to hear that I have found a place in your dreams. It makes me foolishly happy to know I am not merely a shadow in your thoughts but something... more.

You underestimate me, and I will not fault you for that. You think yourself a god, a storm, an unbreakable force—and I admit, I have felt small beneath your gaze. But I am stronger than you imagine. I have carried burdens heavier than any blade you’ve ever wielded, suffered more than you might guess. The world has tested me in ways that sharpened my will rather than broke it.

If you are finally noticing the way I write—that every word is carefully edged with a certain kind of dangerous affection—then so be it. That was my intent all along. I have been flirting with you, boldly and without shame, because I do not fear the man who walks with the weight of curses in his soul.

I will wait for the moment we meet again, impatiently if I am honest, but with the patience that comes from knowing some battles are won by endurance as much as by strength.

Until then, I offer you this—

A blindfold, worn on days when my Six Eyes grow too wild, when the world becomes too much and I need to close myself away. Know that when you keep this, a part of me is with you, even if only in shadow.

—Satoru of the Sugawara line, waiting for you

***

Sukuna sat motionless, the scroll unfurled in one hand, the blindfold folded neatly in the other. He brought the cloth slowly to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was unmistakable—cedar after a rainstorm, fresh grass, the quiet promise of earth softened by water. It stirred something raw and unfamiliar deep within him, a sudden tightening behind his eyes that blurred his vision with the sting of unshed exhaustion.

In that moment, the crushing weight of exhaustion that had settled into his bones throughout the long battle seemed to evaporate, replaced by a restless heat that hummed beneath his skin. He rose with slow deliberation, the scroll still clutched loosely, and made his way to the bath. The warm water embraced him like a lover’s touch, easing the ache in his muscles while stirring the storm in his chest. His breaths grew deeper, uneven, as the quiet loneliness of the night pressed in around him.

His hands dipped beneath the water, moving slowly at first, exploring the familiar curves and planes of his own body as if searching for something lost. A sharp gasp escaped him, low and almost startled—his fingers trembling as if they belonged to another. In that moment, the touch felt foreign, yet thrillingly familiar, as though it were the soft press of Satoru’s hands instead of his own. The thought sparked a rush of heat that coiled deep within his chest, a dangerous and electric ache that throbbed with every pulse.

His mind opened like a dark bloom, petals unfurling into vivid, aching images. He saw Satoru’s wide, bright eyes looking up at him, shy and challenging all at once. The delicate line of his jaw, dusted with faint shadows, the pale curve of his throat, vulnerable and waiting. Sukuna imagined tracing those lines with his fingers, tasting the tension and the quiet surrender beneath the surface.

The boy’s lips—the soft pink that had haunted his dreams—curled into a half-smile, teasing and full of promises yet unspoken. Sukuna’s breath caught as he pictured that smile turning to something darker, something filled with the same dangerous hunger that burned inside him. The closeness of it, the heat of skin against skin, sent a shiver through his body, and he pressed his eyes shut, willing himself to hold onto the fragile thread between desire and restraint.

The bathwater rippled gently around him as his hands moved again, slower now, deliberate—lost in the sensation, lost in the thought of Satoru’s whispered name, carried on a breath that was both a plea and a command. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, Sukuna allowed himself to be undone, caught in the wild, uncharted territory of wanting and being wanted in return.

In the weeks that followed, Sukuna found himself thinking of Satoru more often than he liked to admit.

It began innocently, or so he told himself — remembering the slant of Satoru’s handwriting, the way his brush curled his name with that casual arrogance, the scent of the blindfold he’d left behind, still folded beneath Sukuna’s pillow like a secret. He would catch himself reaching for it in idle moments. Running his fingers along the fabric. Inhaling until his chest ached.

And then the thought began to creep in.

The first time they met — when Satoru had come running to him begging for help — Satoru had mentioned, almost carelessly, that his clan had killed the one he loved.

A single sentence. A passing wound.

But it kept echoing.

Who had it been?

What kind of man had earned that softness in Satoru’s voice? Had he touched him, kissed him? Had he laid him down in the moonlight and watched the Six Eyes flutter closed? The image seared itself into Sukuna’s mind and made something old and ugly churn in his stomach.

Jealousy. He recognized it. He’d felt it before, in the flash before a blade met his target — that flicker of possessiveness before he tore a threat to pieces.

But this was different. He couldn’t destroy a ghost. Couldn’t challenge a memory to a duel. He had no one to kill.

So he ignored it. Buried it. Distracted himself with war councils, with training, with hunting cursed beasts across the countryside.

It didn’t work.

At last, on a sleepless night when the moon looked far too much like Satoru’s grin, Sukuna surrendered. He reached for a fresh scroll, unscrewed the cap of his inkstone, and let the words bleed out of him.

***

Satoru my snow flower,

I haven’t decided yet whether your gift was an offering or a challenge.

The blindfold reeks of you — cedar, grass, that strange sharp scent of divinity you try to wear lightly, as though you aren’t something ancient pretending to be young. It’s soaked through with your arrogance, your carelessness, your unspoken promise that I may have it — you — if I can survive the wait.

I have. Barely.

The fabric is soft. It clings to my fingers when wet. When I press it to my face, it smothers everything but you. A cruel thing, really — to send me a piece of you I can hold while keeping the rest leagues away. You give like a god and take like one too.

I wonder — when you wrapped this cloth around your eyes, were you ever thinking of me? When the Six Eyes ached and you turned your face to the dark, did I flicker there in your thoughts? Did you ever imagine my hands pulling it free?

Did he?

(Yes, I remember. The one your clan buried. The one they killed. The one you loved.)

I wonder what his hands looked like. Were they as steady as mine? Did he touch you the way I dream of touching you? Was he gentler, kinder, easier to forgive? I find myself wanting to break his bones, but he’s long since dust. And that’s the most maddening part — I can’t compete with ash.

You shouldn’t have told me about him. Now he lives in my mind like a curse. And you — you smile as though you don’t notice what you’ve done.

It’s fortunate, then, that you’re now mine.

Say what you will. I’ll still carve the truth into your bones if I must. When I touch you, when you let me touch you, you’ll understand the difference between flirtation and possession.

I’ll wear hold your gift when I sleep. It keeps the hunger sharp.

Now write back. Quickly.

—Sukuna

***

It was less than two weeks when a scroll arrived in a rush, the seal smeared, as if the wax hadn’t been allowed to cool before being pressed shut. The parchment was creased, uneven. Sukuna could see, even before he unfurled it, that this was not the same meticulous hand that had penned the earlier letters.

No—this was desperate.

He unrolled it, expecting another coy turn of phrase or veiled taunt, but what met his eyes was something far more raw. The ink bled in places. The writing tilted wildly on the page. A few letters had been struck through and rewritten, as though Satoru’s hand had trembled or his thoughts outpaced his quill.

***

Sukuna,

I can’t wait anymore.

I tried. I’ve tried to be patient, to be clever and distant and coy and everything else I thought you might like—but I can't do it. I can't. I need you to come to me. Please. I don't care if it’s reckless. I don’t care if the whole world sees you arrive.

You said I was yours. You don’t know what that did to me. I’ve been yours from the moment you tore my enemies apart and looked at me like I was something more than just a relic of my clan. I knew it even then. It was always you, even before I had the words for it.

Suguru—my first love—he was a servant in my family’s estate. He wasn’t supposed to even speak to me, let alone kiss me. But he did. And I kissed him back. We were planning to run. We had everything ready.

They found out the night before.

They made me watch. I’ll never forget it. I think something in me broke that night, and it never quite healed right. I’ve kissed no one since. I’ve touched no one since. I thought maybe I couldn’t love anyone again after him. And yet—

And yet I miss you so terribly it hurts. I think of you more than I mean to. In the mornings, when I wake. At night, when the wind whistles around the roof tiles and I can’t sleep. When I put on my blindfold and pretend it’s your hands that wrap it around my eyes.

I meant what I said. I can take whatever you give. I’m stronger than I look. And I am not afraid of you—not your claws, not your eyes, not your fury. If you’re a god, then I want to stand next to you. If you’re a curse, then let me be ruined by you.

Please come. Soon. Tell me a time and place and I will be there.

No guards. No tricks. Just me.

Come find me, Ryomen Sukuna. I need you.

Your Snow flower

—Satoru

***

Sukuna stared down at the scroll.

His face was burning. Burning.

It was such a ridiculous thing — to be flustered by ink on parchment, by a clumsy, heartfelt scrawl. And yet as his eyes traced the desperate, uneven lines again and again, Sukuna could feel the heat rise all the way to his ears. His hands trembled. His lips parted and closed. He was grinning like some schoolboy, like some temple attendant catching their first glimpse of the divine.

“Stupid boy,” Sukuna muttered aloud. “Naive. Reckless.”

But even to his own ears, it didn’t sound angry.

Because Satoru was reckless. He was young and glowing and utterly foolish. But he was also kind. And beautiful. And infuriating. And that letter — that messy, aching letter — was so full of want it rattled Sukuna’s bones.

Sukuna read it again.

And again.

Each time, the words felt more like a binding than a message. And each time, the curl of something unfamiliar pulled tighter in his chest.

Satoru wanted to see him.

He said he had belonged to Sukuna from the moment they met — the moment Sukuna saved him. Said no one had touched him, not since the boy he lost. Said he wasn’t afraid. Said he missed him. Said he wanted to be ruined by him.

Sukuna’s jaw clenched.

Gods shouldn’t beg. And yet this boy had. This godling, with eyes like spring lightning and power that pulsed like a sun under his skin, had begged for him.

And Sukuna…

Sukuna would come.

He began pacing. A feral energy surged beneath his skin. This could be a trap. Of course it could. Maybe the letter was a ruse, designed by Satoru to draw him in. Maybe the boy was lying. Maybe the whole thing was a ploy to destroy him, to chain him, to humiliate the god of curses for daring to covet something so radiant.

If so—

If so, Sukuna would tear him apart with his own hands. He would slit that porcelain throat and whisper mine as the blood bloomed.

But if not…

If not, then Sukuna would take him. Devour him, body and soul, like a starving man at the altar. He would make the boy cry his name and beg again — not with ink and scrolls, but with shivering lips and clawed hands in his robes.

No matter what the truth was, the answer was the same.

Sukuna would go.

The weeks leading up to Sukuna’s journey passed in strange stillness. He made preparations with a meticulousness uncharacteristic of him — not because he feared the road, but because the anticipation felt sweet. Taut. Thrilling.

A god of curses, planning a pilgrimage. It was almost laughable.

He left his open domain shrine cloaked in darkness, speaking to no one. His departure was a quiet severing — not a grand storm, but a low wind before the break. He did not ride. He walked, robed disguised plainly, with only the faintest flicker of power at his heels to ward off curious beasts and wandering men.

When he reached the port, he said no name.

He paid a sailor with silver and silence, and took his place at the far edge of the boat, away from the low chatter of fishermen and tired traders. He was not recognized. Or perhaps he was, and they simply dared not speak. Either way, the voyage passed without interruption.

The sea was calm.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

He had always found seas to be unruly — a mirror to his nature. Yet here the waves whispered instead of crashing. The wind was salt-soft. The moon hung bloated and pale over the water like an opened eye. It made the voyage seem less like a passage and more like a ritual. Like something sacred.

By the time Kyushu appeared on the horizon, green and blooming, Sukuna's anticipation had curdled into something deeper. Not anxiety. Not yet. But alertness. Hunger. Readiness.

He was close.

He disembarked before dawn, somewhere south of the main settlements, cloaked in illusion and shadow. His first breath of the island air was laced with honeysuckle and smoke. The morning mist clung to the trees like silk. Everything felt alive.

And then… something he did not expect.

Peace.

The people of Kyushu were quiet. Steady. Their movements lacked the fear-stiff flinching Sukuna had grown used to seeing in places touched by power. They were cautious, yes — reverent, even — but they did not walk like those ruled by terror.

And when they spoke of the Sugawara clan, of Satoru, it was with a strange blend of awe and wariness. Not hatred. Not worship. Something in between.

He heard a merchant boy speak of Satoru’s recent blessings during a drought — how the young heir had appeared at the field's edge with his eyes wrapped in silken cloth, hands dripping with rain as the clouds finally broke. He watched a pair of old women lay small offerings — citrus and rice — outside the estate’s gates, whispering their hopes for Satoru’s health and safety.

They feared his power, certainly.

But they respected him.

And more than that — they trusted him.

Sukuna could hardly believe it.

Gods were not meant to be loved.

He moved through the villages unseen, his form shrouded in illusion, his senses stretched thin like a net. Every breath of wind. Every heartbeat of the people. Every time a child giggled or a gate creaked or a prayer was murmured toward the estate — Sukuna was watching.

When he finally caught sight of the Sugawara estate itself, nestled against the cliffs and surrounded by trees heavy with fruit, his breath caught.

It was beautiful.

Not in the ornate, pride-swollen way of other clans. It was old. Simple. Stone and wood, latticed windows and pale drapes that danced in the breeze. The outer gate was unguarded, though he sensed dozens of barriers woven into the wind around it.

And somewhere inside — laughing, writing, walking barefoot over tatami — was Satoru.

Sukuna waited for nightfall like a lover waits for breath.

The estate was still by the time the moon had risen high — all warm lamps extinguished, all sliding doors shut. But Sukuna had long since memorized the patterns of silence, the soft shuffle of servants, the restless creak of beams in the wind. He waited until the last of the footsteps faded. Then, like a shadow slipping between folds of light, he moved.

He passed unnoticed through the gardens, through the long, low halls, drawn to the room with unrelenting cursed energy he knew was Satoru’s. The door was slightly open, as if beckoning him in.

And inside —

There he was.

Satoru sat with his back to the door, facing the open window. The moonlight was silver and sharp, pooling across the floor and curling like smoke around Satoru’s silhouette. His white robe hung loosely off one shoulder. His hair was down, brushing his nape. He looked like a dream.

Sukuna didn’t speak.

He simply stepped inside and knelt quietly at Satoru’s side.

There was a small sound — a sudden breath — as Satoru turned. His eyes, bright and unbound, glowed faintly in the dark like twin moons of their own. He had sensed someone behind him, but not who. Not yet.

They stared at each other.

And then Sukuna pulled down his cloak.

It slid from his shoulders in a quiet sweep, revealing him fully — both the grotesque and the beautiful, the lacquered lines of his wooden side and the sharp gravity of his living one. The room was silent but for the hum of the night and the thud of Satoru’s heart.

Satoru’s eyes went wide.

And then, gently — achingly carefully — he reached out.

His fingers hovered for a moment, as if unsure this wasn’t illusion. Then they touched Sukuna’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the divide between his human skin and the sculpted grain of his other side. He touched him like he was afraid he might vanish.

Sukuna didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He simply stared at Satoru — at the way the moonlight kissed the hollows of his cheeks, the softness of his mouth, the divinity in his presence that made the air feel thick with some sacred thing.

And then Satoru whispered, as if confessing a secret:

“You’re… very beautiful.”

Something cracked inside Sukuna — soft and sudden, like ice underfoot.

He gave a quiet, breathless laugh, more exhale than sound.

And then, in the next heartbeat, he surged forward, catching Satoru’s face in his hands.

He kissed him hard.

It was the kiss of months of longing, of letters stained with unsaid things, of ache, of fury, of need. He gripped Satoru’s jaw, pulled him close, swallowed his surprised breath like it belonged to him.

And Satoru kissed him back — just as hard.

They pulled apart, breathless. For a moment, neither spoke.

Sukuna’s eyes were wide, stunned. He stared at Satoru, utterly transfixed, unable to look away. And Satoru… Satoru stared right back, his pupils huge in the dark, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe Sukuna was real and here and kissing him like that.

They looked at each other as if they’d both been struck by the same bolt of lightning.

Then Sukuna moved.

Without a word, he scooped Satoru up — one arm behind his shoulders, the other beneath his knees, the other two gripping his waist — and lifted him easily. Satoru gave a breathless laugh, startled, but didn’t protest. Sukuna turned and lowered him carefully onto the futon, about to follow—

Until Satoru pressed a hand against his chest.

“No,” he murmured, breath catching.

Then, with an unexpected flash of insistence, he pushed Sukuna back — guiding him down until his shoulders met the headrest. Sukuna blinked, stunned at the reversal, though not at all displeased. His brows arched, just slightly, but he allowed it, shifting to accommodate.

Satoru climbed over him.

He straddled Sukuna’s waist, white robe slipping scandalously down one arm, hair a halo of pale light. And then he leaned forward and flung his arms around Sukuna’s neck, nearly knocking them both off balance as he kissed him — wildly, sloppily, joyfully.

His mouth pressed against Sukuna’s cheek, his jaw, his throat, his lips again, kissing him over and over like he couldn’t get enough — like he’d waited too long and now he was starving. His blunt nails scraped lightly against the back of Sukuna’s neck, clutching at him with reckless affection.

“You came,” Satoru whispered between kisses, voice hoarse, almost tearful. “You really came.”

Sukuna laughed — low, rough, and utterly pleased.

He wrapped his arms around Satoru’s waist, anchoring him close, and tilted his head to accept the kisses like they were his due. His grin was sharp and satisfied, his heart thundering against Satoru’s chest.

“Of course I did,” Sukuna said, voice like gravel, like heat, like the bare edge of a growl. “You called me, didn’t you?”

And Satoru smiled — wide and unguarded, with all the brilliance of the moon behind him.

Satoru’s hands were trembling as he reached for the edges of Sukuna’s robe, but he pulled the fabric aside with reverence, exposing skin that had not seen moonlight in centuries. His lips followed immediately — desperate, almost feverish — pressing kisses to every bare place he could find.

Sternum.
Collarbones.
The swell of Sukuna’s pectorals.
Each shoulder, marked and powerful beneath his touch.

Sukuna’s breath hitched.

His grip on Satoru’s thighs tightened, fingers digging in as Satoru settled more firmly in his lap. And then—Sukuna shifted, just slightly, and forced Satoru’s legs farther apart, wide and unyielding on either side of his thick thighs. The position was obscene, vulnerable, claiming.

Satoru whimpered — a soft, helpless sound — but didn’t stop. His mouth continued its trail with single-minded devotion, teeth grazing skin when he thought he could get away with it.

“I needed you,” he whispered between kisses, his breath fanning over Sukuna’s chest. “For so long, I—”

He kissed just below Sukuna’s collarbone, voice breaking.

“You’re like me, aren’t you?” Another kiss, lower now. “You know what it’s like — to have too much power, and no one to share it with.”

Sukuna didn’t answer at first — he just exhaled sharply, chest rising with the force of it. But his hands slid higher up Satoru’s thighs, possessive now, gripping tight.

A rough hum rolled from his throat.

“Mn. I do.”

Satoru shuddered at the sound. His fingers flattened over Sukuna’s ribs, and then — with a kind of nervous pause — he glanced down.

That mouth. The one carved into Sukuna’s torso, sleeping in the center of his form like some dark secret.

He hesitated.

Then — slowly — he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to it. Gentle. Earnest. Almost chaste.

Sukuna gasped.

His whole body jerked, breath catching as if something had broken loose inside him. No one had ever—

The mouth shivered open — not in hunger, but in something startlingly like surprise.

Sukuna let out a low, breathless noise and tangled his fingers in Satoru’s hair, gripping tight, not to hurt — but to anchor himself.

“You—” his voice cracked, unexpectedly raw, “Satoru, my little snow flower.”

But Satoru didn’t listen. If anything, the name only made him more determined.

He kissed the mouth on Sukuna’s torso harder now, messily, no longer chaste or hesitant. His lips shone with its saliva, sticky and strange, but he didn’t stop—he kissed like a man starved, like he was giving something of himself in every movement of his mouth.

Sukuna’s body jolted, his breath falling apart in gasps, his hips twitching slightly despite himself. His arms trembled with restraint as Satoru kissed eagerly, over and over, and a choked sound escaped him when he realized he was the one writhing now.

He tilted his head back, throat bared to the ceiling, hair spilling down his back as he let the sensation wash over him. He had lived lifetimes, destroyed kingdoms, broken gods—and yet this boy, this pale flickering firelight of a boy, was undoing him.

“Enough,” Sukuna rasped, voice low and ragged.

With a gentleness at odds with his size, two of his hands gripped behind Satoru’s thighs, while the other two braced the small of his back and shoulder. He lifted Satoru without effort, tilting him backwards, carefully pushing until Satoru’s upper back rested against the soft mattress—and his lower body, thighs and pelvis, hovered just above, cradled in Sukuna’s grasp.

Satoru blinked up at him, stunned, breathless.

His hair spilled like snow across the sheets.

The way Sukuna looked down at him then—eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, reverent and ruined—made Satoru’s heart stutter.

He was careful, impossibly so, when he disrobed him—peeling back the thin layers of cloth with deliberate hands, as though revealing something too precious for the world to touch. Satoru’s pale skin shivered in the open air, moonlight turning his body to porcelain, to starlight, to something that had no business being mortal.

Satoru squirmed in Sukuna’s arms, flushed and breathless, whining softly as Sukuna adjusted his grip—two strong arms cradling Satoru’s legs, the others braced tightly on his waist. Satoru found himself wrapping his legs around Sukuna’s thick neck. He was held aloft, weightless, as though worshiped.

And then—

Sukuna wrapped his mouth around Satoru and Satoru gave strangled gasp.

His spine arched, knees trembling, fingers clutching at the sheets as he writhed. His head tipped back in raw, voiceless shock. The first sound he managed was a whimper—small, stunned—and then another, louder this time, desperate and helpless and warm. His legs tightened around Sukuna’s head and neck in shock, still being held up upside down by the four-armed god.

He—he, the god who had devoured kings, who had crushed men and deities alike beneath his heel—he moved as if this were devotion. As if this act, this giving, were something holy. His hands never wavered. His grip was firm but gentle, perfectly attuned to the tremors in Satoru’s thighs, the twist of his waist, the trembling of his breath.

And Satoru—Satoru was unraveling.

He was gasping now, flushed all the way to his throat, hair clinging to his cheeks and forehead. He whined without meaning to, helpless, caught in a storm of sensation he hadn’t known his body was capable of feeling. Every brush, every hum, every deliberate shift of Sukuna’s hands and mouth sent sparks through his spine and made his thighs twitch in Sukuna’s grip.

“Sukuna—” he choked out, voice cracking.

Satoru trembled in his hold, overwhelmed. His fingers clutched helplessly at the mattress, his body arching—he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his voice, his body. Sukuna was holding him together even as he fell apart, keeping him suspended with a reverence that bordered on ruinous.

He’d never been touched like this.

Never been wanted like this.

Not by a man. Not by a god. Not like this.

And when the moment crested, when it finally took him—Satoru cried out, soft and strangled and perfect—and Sukuna held him all the way through it, never once looking away.

He eased him back onto the bed afterward, as if setting down something irreplaceable.

Satoru lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling as his breathing slowed in uneven bursts, his body still trembling with aftershocks he couldn’t control. His chest rose and fell rapidly, lips parted, hair damp with sweat. He looked like something undone. Like the fragile edge of a god dreaming he was a boy again.

Sukuna, watching him with something far too smug in his grin, dragged a claw gently along the curve of Satoru’s thigh—possessive, but not cruel. Reverent, even.

When Satoru tried to sit up—out of instinct, out of habit, out of some foolish belief he could regain control—Sukuna simply pressed him back down with one hand. It was gentle, but final. As though the earth itself had decided it would not move for him.

Satoru gasped as Sukuna climbed over him.

The sheer size of him was absurd. Breathtaking.

Satoru wasn’t small. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his body built for combat and power and beauty. But compared to Sukuna—whose frame seemed carved from myth, larger than logic, thick with muscle and strength and weight—Satoru looked almost fragile. Almost.

He flushed deeply.

Sukuna caged him in, all four arms braced around him, surrounding him, shadowing him like a cathedral.

And then he kissed him.

Deep and slow and claiming.

Satoru tasted himself on Sukuna’s lips—hot and unfamiliar and sharp—but to his own surprise, it didn’t bother him. If anything, it made his brain spark. He kissed Sukuna harder, feverishly, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything he could reach.

He whispered into Sukuna’s mouth between frantic kisses, voice hoarse, “You can’t leave me. You can’t. We’re the same.”

Sukuna pulled back only enough to look him in the eyes.

His expression was dark, but quiet.

“You couldn’t leave me if you tried at this point,” he said, voice low and steady, like a curse or a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”

And Satoru believed him.

Down to his bones.

Sukuna’s hands moved slowly—unrushed, but certain—as he disrobed what little clothing he still wore. Satoru’s breath caught as he looked up at him again.

At the god made man. The monster made soft. The force of nature that had brought him to this moment, where he was pinned beneath the weight of something far greater than himself—and yet wanted.

Wanted.

Wanted.

And Satoru didn’t look away.

Satoru gasped when Sukuna finally moved — when he pressed forward and into him like the tide swallowing the moon, when the weight of him, the unbearable closeness, made Satoru’s whole body arch and seize beneath him. There was no pretense now. No careful games, no teasing restraint. Only the truth of it: Sukuna was overwhelming, divine, his, and Satoru was trembling apart beneath every word, every inch of contact, every breathless second.

A broken cry escaped him. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the sheets before twisting up into Sukuna’s skin instead, seeking purchase, seeking anchor. His back bowed. He shuddered like something struck by lightning.

And Sukuna — Sukuna watched it all with a gaze molten and starved. Smirking, reverent. Worshipful.

“Look at you,” he breathed, all four arms bracketing Satoru in, keeping him open, pinned, offered. “So eager. So good for me. You take everything I give you — again and again — without a single thought of resistance.”

Satoru whimpered, head tossing against the pillows. His fingers clenched around Sukuna’s shoulder blades, nails leaving pink crescents against sacred skin.

“You should be proud,” Sukuna murmured, brushing his mouth over Satoru’s throat, over the frantic pulse fluttering there. “You’re the only one I’d ever let have this—let see me like this.”

And he was right. For all his cruelty, Sukuna had given him everything. Laid his monstrous love bare. Satoru didn’t need to be told again.

“You’re lucky,” Sukuna said, voice low and warm like blood. “The god of curses has taken you for his own. And you—you bloom for me like a flower in the dark.”

Satoru arched again, wrecked and breathless, overwhelmed by pleasure that sang like divinity through his spine. He felt it happening, his own unraveling — again and again, beyond his control. His breath hitched, caught in his throat like light in a prism, and he cried out without shame.

It was too much. And yet not enough. And still it didn’t stop.

He wasn’t sure how many times Sukuna pulled the world from beneath his feet. The edges of time blurred, warped. He was limp with it by the end, face damp, chest heaving, lips parted and swollen from too many kisses. He trembled in Sukuna’s hold, vision going soft, blinking slowly like something drugged or dazed.

And Sukuna still looked at him like he was sacred.

“You couldn’t leave me if you tried,” the god whispered into his temple, voice quiet now, almost tender. “I’ve buried too much of myself inside you.”

Satoru made a sound — not quite a word — and let his eyes fall shut, his arms circling Sukuna’s shoulders with what strength he had left. He was spent. Raw. Grateful. Devoted in the way only someone utterly ruined could be.

And Sukuna kissed him, possessive and slow, a god claiming what he had already taken.

It was the early hours of morning when Sukuna stirred, long before the sun had risen. The room was dim, the air cool, but not enough to explain the warmth pressed so tightly against him.

Satoru was clinging to him.

Not lazily, not idly — but with a desperation that made Sukuna still. One arm wrapped around his neck, the other curled tightly around Sukuna’s back, as if holding onto something slipping through his fingers. His face was buried in the hollow beneath Sukuna’s collarbone, soft breaths warming the skin there, his lashes damp and clinging to flushed cheeks.

Sukuna exhaled slowly and pressed a kiss to Satoru’s temple. He tried, carefully, to ease himself free — but he hadn’t moved more than a few inches before Satoru’s grip tightened with startling strength, dragging him back down with a force that shocked even him.

Then, quietly, brokenly, Satoru sniffed in his sleep.

“…Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse, caught between dream and waking. “I can’t be alone again. Please don’t leave me… you’re all I have left.”

Sukuna froze.

The words hit something deep and cruel and human in him, something he hadn’t named in years. He looked down at the trembling body clinging to him, the furrowed brow, the tearstained cheeks, and he lowered himself slowly — carefully — back down into Satoru’s arms.

He brought his mouth close to Satoru’s ear and said in a voice far softer than anyone else had ever heard:

“I wasn’t leaving you, snow flower… I was only getting you water. You’ve exhausted yourself, haven’t you?”

Satoru gave a tiny sound in return, a half-conscious sniffle, and curled in closer, so tightly Sukuna could feel every flutter of his heartbeat. “’m fine,” he murmured. “Just stay.”

And so Sukuna stayed.

He eased his weight carefully atop Satoru, resting between his legs and settling his arms around him as though he were something to be cradled, to be protected, to be kept. He ran a hand slowly through the damp ends of Satoru’s hair and held him as if he would never let go. As if he couldn’t. For a long time, Sukuna said nothing. He only listened to Satoru’s breathing slow. He felt the tremble ease from his limbs.

Eventually, Sukuna slipped from the futon without waking him. Or so he thought.

He moved silently through the halls of the old estate, trailing through sunlit corridors until he found the morning’s offerings—freshly cut fruit, cool tea, and soft rice wrapped in lotus leaf. He ignored the rice. He took what would please his snow flower.

When he returned, the room was quiet but no longer empty of awareness.

Satoru was already sitting up, the covers fallen to his waist, hair mussed and eyes shadowed. He looked around slowly, a frown tugging at his lips, and when his gaze landed on Sukuna, something in his face cracked open. Relief.

Sukuna set the tray down and sat beside him, and without hesitation, Satoru collapsed sideways across his lap. His arms wound tightly around Sukuna’s waist, his neck resting along the curve of Sukuna’s thigh, cheek pressed against his robes like he could melt into him entirely.

Sukuna gave a quiet huff of amusement, but his hand was already moving. One of them traced slow lines along the pale column of Satoru’s throat, brushing his pulse; the other three hands worked delicately with the blade and fruit, slicing thin crescent pieces of peach and feeding them one by one into Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru accepted them without complaint, chewing happily, his eyes fluttering closed each time Sukuna let his fingers linger too long against his lips.

After a moment, his voice came, quiet.

“...Are you going to go back?”

Sukuna didn’t stop cutting. “Yes,” he said.

“To Honshu?”

“Mmh.”

Satoru shifted on his lap, brows furrowing. “Why don’t you just stay?”

Sukuna turned his gaze down to him and smiled slowly, indulgently. “Then you’ll simply have to come with me, won’t you?”

Satoru pouted, childlike and unsure. “I can’t.”

Sukuna didn’t answer. He reached for the chilled cup and tipped it slightly, letting the tea spill into Satoru’s waiting mouth. Satoru lapped at it eagerly, throat working as he swallowed, but a trickle ran over Sukuna’s fingers and down his palm.

Before he could wipe it, Satoru’s mouth closed around his hand.

His tongue was warm, slow, purposeful, lapping along Sukuna’s fingers—one, then another—until his lips enclosed two of them fully, sucking with startling intent. Sukuna raised an eyebrow and watched as Satoru took them down to the knuckle, tongue swirling, eyes fluttered shut like it brought him peace.

“You’re shameless,” Sukuna murmured, amused.

Satoru pulled off with a soft pop, licking the last trace of tea from his lip, and nestled closer. Sukuna brushed his hair back gently, fingers threading through white strands. Satoru turned into his touch, nuzzling Sukuna’s stomach with a soft, content sound.

Then, again:

“…Stay.”

It was quieter this time. Less demand, more plea.

Sukuna stilled.

His hand curled loosely in Satoru’s hair, and his eyes searched the space ahead, the low golden light, the soft scent of tea and sweat and fruit. He looked down at the body sprawled across his lap—tired, flushed, full of hope despite everything.

Satoru shifted against him, and spoke with care.

“…Your throne. It’s your domain, isn’t it?” He looked up, voice light but intent. “Couldn’t you… move it? Bring it closer to the border of our lands?”

Sukuna’s gaze dropped slowly, head tilting, unreadable.

“If you did that,” Satoru went on, “I could stay with you.”

For a moment, silence.

Then Sukuna’s hand shot out and seized Satoru’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks. Another hand wrapped swiftly around his throat, nails pressing in—not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise.

Satoru’s breath caught.

Sukuna’s voice came low, chilling.

“And what if I did that?” he asked, too calmly. “What if I moved my throne, took your lands, claimed your people? What if I killed you, little lord? Would you accept that too?”

His nails bit deeper. Satoru winced, but did not flinch.

He met Sukuna’s gaze evenly, blue eyes clear and calm, and without a word, pried the cursed god’s hands off his face and throat.

Then, without pause, he leaned forward and kissed him.

Softly. Like the threat had never been spoken.

He pulled back only slightly, lips brushing Sukuna’s. “You got up and cut me fruit,” he murmured. “You treated me with such care last night. You wrote me letters for months. I don’t think you’d really hurt me.”

Sukuna stared at him.

He didn’t speak. His eyes searched Satoru’s face with something strange, something cautious and bewildered and old. The god who had laid waste to provinces. The demon who had ruled a hundred shrines. The man now holding this ridiculous, soft, fearless creature in his arms.

Satoru kissed him again—this time slower, fuller—and wrapped his arms around Sukuna’s neck, pulling him close.

After a long moment, Sukuna’s arms came around him, all four of them, folding him in like a storm pulling in its eye. He pressed his forehead to Satoru’s, let his breath stir white hair.

“...Fine,” Sukuna murmured at last. “I’ll move it.”

Satoru blinked. “What?”

“My domain. I’ll shift the shrine.” His voice was low. “To the border. You’ll stay there. With me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Satoru beamed—utterly, foolishly delighted.

He grinned wide enough to wrinkle the corners of his eyes, and his arms tightened around Sukuna like he might never let go.

It took months. Months of storms and blood rites and flame-fed processions, of bones buried beneath stone and ancient seals broken open again. But Sukuna kept his word.

The shrine moved.

It rose like a scar from the ragged hills at the edge of the border between Kyushu and Honshu—his throne seated high atop a mountain shrouded in mist and silence. The air thrummed with cursed energy, and his domain unfolded like a second skin, breathing with the pulse of its god.

He had just settled onto his throne—his crownless seat of carved obsidian and bone—when he looked up.

And saw him.

Satoru.

Running.

His white robes flew behind him, hair bright and wild in the mountain wind, his feet skimming over the stone steps like they weren’t even there. He was laughing—completely, absurdly delighted—and the domain howled in reaction.

Black thorns rose like spears. Mouths opened in the walls. The ground cracked and growled, power sharpening like knives, but—

Nothing touched him.

Satoru ran straight through it all, unscathed, heart-first.

Sukuna’s grin curled slowly as he leaned back against the seat of his throne and extended a single finger, beckoning.

Satoru didn’t slow.

He bounded up the steps, two at a time, and in the space of a breath, he threw himself onto the throne—onto Sukuna—arms wrapping around the demon’s shoulders, legs straddling him as he crashed their mouths together in a fierce, breathless kiss.

It was messy, eager, overwhelming—like he’d been waiting for this forever.

When he finally pulled back, his hands cupped Sukuna’s cheeks, eyes burning bright and alive.

“I’m staying,” he said. “From now on. I’m not going back. You don’t get to leave me.”

There was no trace of fear. Only the promise in his voice, as if this was always the end he’d run toward.

Sukuna’s hands slipped around his waist—slowly, deliberately—and he held him like something claimed.

“No,” Sukuna murmured, voice low and rough against Satoru’s throat. “I won’t. Never again.”

And so he kept him. In the high shrine of smoke and stone, beneath the endless sky that cracked with thunder and starlight, Sukuna kept Satoru close—wrapped in silk and silence, in heat and longing, in the quiet awe of a love neither of them had believed themselves made for. Seasons folded over them like petals, and still, Satoru remained—never caged, only cherished, his laughter echoing through cursed halls that had forgotten joy. Sukuna, god of ruin, learned to hold with reverence what he could have so easily destroyed. He fed Satoru fruit from his own hands and drank his name like wine. And when the world whispered warnings of gods and monsters and the foolishness of loving either, it was Satoru who kissed Sukuna’s mouth shut and stayed.

A promise, eternal and unbroken, made between a storm and the one who chose to run straight into it.